


Lay You Down

by mydwynter



Series: Lay You Down [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boyfriends, Explicit Sex, Falling In Love, First Date, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Food Porn, Frottage, Hathaway/OMC - Freeform, Humor, Literary References, M/M, Phone Sex, Romance, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Well…</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Both.</i>
</p>
<p>This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Naissance

**Author's Note:**

> A bucketload of thanks goes to Mazarin221b, who was the cheerleader, the beta, the whipcracker, and the catalyst for this thing. Thanks ever so, Maz.

It all starts with a case.

…But of course it does.

A student had been killed in the stacks, and even though it hadn't happened on Nick's shift it had nonetheless thrown the whole department off, and he was feeling the strain. _One can't simply stroll by a crime scene in one's workplace without it having_ some _psychological effect,_ he tells himself, as he shivers and avoids that corner for the third time in one day.

It's as he's rounding the corner that he nearly collides with a Detective Sergeant Hathaway, who asks a load of questions Nick knows nothing about. It's a shame, really; he'd _like_ to be able to help, not only because the man is dishy-as-fuck and Nick would love to make him smile, but because someone was murdered in _his_ library, and there's an inherent protectiveness involved in that.

He's aware that doesn't really make sense, but it is what it is.

Hathaway follows him to his desk to ask more questions. Nick answers them. The conversation flies then slows then idles, and they both try not to be caught looking at each other, and Nick fusses with a stack of books piled on his desk, lining up the edges and squaring the corners.

Hathaway prods the top book in the pile. "John Donne," he rumbles, and lifts up his head to quote. "MARK but this flea, and mark in this/How little that which thou deniest me is/It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee/And in this flea our two bloods mingled be."

Nick thinks he might come in his pants on the spot.

He pushes down three awkward retorts, one an ill-advised joke about bloodplay, and swallows hard, and there follow several dragging seconds where his mind races and he tries to get enough saliva in his mouth not to croak.

"Most people prefer poetry about butterflies," he manages, then blushes at how fatuous he sounds.

"Harder to make a parasitic organism sexy."

Suck. Hard. Sexy. This conversation is becoming distracting. Nick suddenly wants desperately to put his mouth against that flat stomach and suck until it leaves a bruise.

They stand in awkward silence again for a few interminable moments before Hathway shuffles his feet and takes his leave. But before he rounds the corner of the stacks—

"Sergeant."

Hathaway turns and stares at Nick, waiting.

"Erm, if you…have any more questions. I'm here, er, Tuesday through Saturday."

Finally, after a few tense seconds, Hathaway smiles.

...

 

Nick looks up—and up and up—when the shadow crosses his pile of papers. He fights down a grin. "Sergeant."

"Mr..."

"Driscoll." He shakes his head quickly. "Nick." He smiles, feeling unaccountably shy.

And to his relief, Hathaway smiles back. Just a little. "Nick. Has Professor Mayhew been through this morning?"

"I haven't seen her. Do you want me to—" Nick reaches for the phone, eyebrows raised.

"No, no," Hathaway says airily, looking over Nick's shoulder. "I know where she'll be."

Nick feels his cheeks pink a little, wondering why Hathaway had come by if he'd known his quarry wasn't going to be there, then blushes more just at the sheer fact of his embarrassment. He searches desperately for something to say.

Hathaway's eyes fall to the pile on the desk. "No poetry today," he comments. Nick suspects Hathaway might have been blushing as well, but Nick is so desperate not to stare he’s only looking for bare milliseconds at a time. Besides, the lighting could be better.  
   
"No. Periodicals. Less _mariposa_ , more Maritime News Quarterly." Internally, Nick rolls his eyes at himself.

To his surprise, that actually gets another piece of a smile. Hathaway's gaze locks with his for one long, stomach-dropping moment before it flicks away again. "Anything about an albatross this quarter?"

"Not that I've seen. Just something about a large white whale upsetting the shipping forecast."

Hathaway lets out a chuckle, staring resolutely out the window over Nick's head.  For his part, Nick stares at the way his mouth quirks at the corners.  _You're so lovely_. The hush of the library falls around them, and after a few seconds and a bit of a nod, Hathaway turns to go. "Thank y—"

"Dinner?" Nick stands and blurts out before he knows he’s going to do it. It is, in a word, _horrifying_. He stares, dry-mouthed and with his heart thumping in his throat, as Hathaway obviously tries to compose a response. Nick cuts across Hathaway's thought process; if it’s taking that long to form an answer, the answer is clearly a no.

"No. Sorry. Never mind," he says in a rush. "Obviously it's. I mean, you're on duty. I mean, a case, and you…”

Hathaway's stance seems to relax a little, though when Nick dares to look at him, sure enough, his cheeks are  _very_ pink. "Yes, I've…had some…problems before, and so I can't really, while I'm investi—"

"No, no, that's fine. Really. Fine." Nick is reminded of the sensation of spending his entire evening working the grill in his former life as a chef, though he’s sure even then his ears had never felt _this_ goddamn warm. "Sorry."

"No, that's— Sorry." Looking just as mortified as Nick feels, Hathaway turns to go again.

And Nick lets him, tucking his trembling hands in his pockets and not having the faintest clue what else he can _possibly_ say.

...

 

When their first date begins, Nick isn’t exactly sure what is going on.

"Yes."

Startled, Nick looks up from the computer to see a blurry Sergeant Hathaway standing in front of the reference desk. It is late enough that there’s no queue. Nick blinks his eyes a few times and presses his hands over his face to wake himself up a bit. "Sorry?"

"I said yes."

Nick looks down to the database he’s working on, then up to Hathaway's face, then off to a bit of space to the man's side. Then again, back up into his face. "What?" Unsurprisingly, he feels himself start to blush. If the past two meetings are any indication, Nick is comfortable expecting that trend to continue. Sunny with a 85% chance of embarrassment.

"Dinner." Even in the low light coming in through the vaulted windows, Hathaway himself looks pink. "Yes."

"Yes."

"My— The case is…finished."

It occurs to Nick he can, perhaps, permit himself a little hope. "So…dinner."

Hathaway huffs a laugh, looking at the bulletin board behind the desk with intense concentration. "Yes."

A bright grin slowly stretches its way across Nick's face. "Tonight?"

"If you like." Now, _now_ , Hathaway is clearly starting to smile. Nick can tell by the way the corners of his mouth are twitching.

"I do," Nick says, and shoves to his feet. He begins shuffling papers into a pile.

Hathaway's eyes flick to the clock above the desk. "It's only just half seven."

Nick stops. "Oh. Right. I'm, er, not finished until 8."

"I know."

The simple statement draws Nick up short. "How do you know that?"

Hathaway looks away. "I'll be—" he waves his hand into the emptiness of the library "— if that's alright with you."

"Y—Yeah, that's fine." Flustered, Nick sits down again, not expecting to be able to focus on any of his work for the rest of his shift.

But Hathaway wanders off almost immediately, so Nick manages a few minutes of work in between worrying about the suitability of his clothing for a date and whether the state of his bedroom matters. Precisely at 8, Hathaway appears at the desk, looking over-warm in his coat and with tension tight in his shoulders as he slips his phone back into his pocket.

"Yes?"

Nick finishes filing a sheath of papers behind the desk. "Yes." He looks up, and his breath stutters. Hathaway is smiling, ear to ear, and his eyes catch the light just the right way to gleam brilliantly.

_I would kiss you right this second_ , Nick thinks, _but I don't even know your given name_.

He walks around the massive desk and stands awkwardly at Hathaway's side. "Where are we off to?"

"What do you like?"

"Everything."

“ _Everything_ everything? A lot of people say that, but then—"

"Sergeant." Hathaway stops and looked at Nick. "I like _food_.”

Slowly, Hathaway smiles. "The Ginger Palace, then."

"Why there?"

"You can survive off a platter of their pad thai for days."

_Quantity vs quality_ , Nick thinks. _Okay. Yeah, sure, I can work with that_.

They walk toward the exit and Nick, feeling bold, slips his hand between Hathaway's arm and body and curls it around his elbow. He feels the drag as Hathaway's steps stall momentarily, and he looks up to catch a shatteringly-vulnerable expression flash across his face before he smiles. There is a tentative slide of fingers, and they start again to the door with Hathaway's hand warmly covering Nick's own.

"James."

Nick looks up, startled out of his spinning thoughts. "Hm?"

"You should call me James."

Judging by the ache in his cheeks, Nick grins all the way to the restaurant and most of the way through the meal. Even through the slightly-awkward banter, the incessant blushing, and the mediocre noodles that fill the evening, he barely stops at all. The meal passes in a flash.

Before he knows it, James has gotten up to go to the men's and Nick is left staring at the remains of their suppers in a panic, trying to suss out whether he is meant to get the bill. Ordinarily if he asks then he pays, but James turned him down only to ambush him with yes tonight. Did that mean he’s supposed to— Or did it switch over when— _Oh, sod it_. Nick waves to get the bill himself.

James takes longer than Nick expects, and he returns just in time to see Nick putting a slip of paper into his wallet. His eyes dart to the pile of coins on the table. "Ah."

Warmth blooms in Nick's chest at the disappointed look on his face. "You can pay next time."

James looks a bit surprised at that. "Next time?"

Nick bursts out laughing so suddenly he embarrasses himself in front of the other diners. He gently ushers James out by his elbow. "You must be a _rubbish_ detective."

They walk for a while after their meal, and after the first minute Nick starts to become overly aware of his hand pressed between James's side and his elbow. He isn’t entirely sure what keeps compelling him to do that. It’s…awkward.

He tries to focus on their conversation.

"…And then the old man tried to climb out the bedroom window."

"While you were in the front?"

"Mmhmm." James smirks and settles his coat closer around his shoulders. "My DI practically chased him right into my hands."

Nick shivers a little, and uses that as cover to pull his hand away from James's side and wrap his arms around himself. Best not to seem too eager.

James casts him a sidelong glance. "I'm sorry. You're cold—"

"No, I'm fine—"

"You probably didn't plan to walk tonight—"

"No, I don't mind." James sounds so unsure, so dear, that Nick regrets pulling his hand away.

"Would you like to go home?" James stops and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He turns toward Nick, but examines the pub sign opposite them.

Nick studies his face. "James." Finally, he manages to catch his eye. They stare at each other for a few moments, and Nick feels himself blushing. "Hi," he murmurs.

A smile plays around the corners of James's mouth. "Hello."

Nick doesn't want to go home. Yet. At all. In the slightest. He's mentally casting about for something to drag out the evening when there's a small noise from over the road. Nick hopes this is the blessing he's looking for. "Do you have to work tomorrow?"

Warily, James looks at him. "Not until the afternoon, unless there's another case."

"Do you…like live music?"

For some reason, that's funny. Nick watches James chuckle for a few seconds, grinning, then adds smoothly, "There's a session tonight. Have a drink with me."

James stops laughing just long enough to answer, looking more calm than Nick had yet seen him. "Irish?"

Nick points over his shoulder, "Over there?"

"I'd wondered if that's what I was hearing."

"I try to go in whenever Clive is playing."

"Who's Clive?" 

Does he sound…jealous? Doubtful. "On fiddle. About eighty. A master." The delight that transforms James's face is beautiful. "Come." Nick threads his arm around James's and leads him in the direction of the pub. "Let's see if they'll play us _The Butterfly_.”

James laughs.

 

The sound of some cricket game follows them outside after the session ends. Nick is giggling and shoves his shoulder against James's as they stroll down the pavement. "I give you a month. You'll be back, toting your guitar and wanting to sit in."

"Maybe," James says with a reserved smile.

"Make sure you know what you're doing—they get a lot of rubbish guitarists wanting to be young guitar gods who don't have a clue."

"I'll be aware." James smiles.

"Better than being a bodhran player, I suppose."

"Mmm?"

"Anybody thinks they can bang a drum these days." A smile creeps over Nick's face. "I trust you. You seem like the sort of bloke who doesn't enter into things lightly."

James doesn't answer that, and they walk the rest of the way back the library without talking. The silence is oddly comfortable.

Then James stops. "My, er, my car is down here." He gestures to the alley.

It's cold out, this late at night, this early in the spring, and Nick shivers. "I'm parked at the library still." He steps up closer to James. Nick can feel the heat from his body, and it takes an unreasonable amount of self-control not to just close the distance right then and there. He tilts up his face. The clouds of their breath mingle in the cold night air as James leans in, and Nick feels his pulse pounding in his throat. He can feel James’s breath, and hear it, deep and rapid as running.

Their lips catch. James tastes plush, and a bit like ale, and the kiss is soft and near-chaste and _lovely_. Nick pulls back a few inches to look at James's face and is surprised to find the other man’s eyes still closed, eyelashes pale and translucent in the light of the streetlamp. His heart flips at the idea that James could be so affected by such a small thing as that kiss. Then James's eyes flicker open, and Nick watches them turn from misty to focussed, the emotion in them go from transported to sheer _terror_. 

James steps back, blinking rapidly. "Erm." He swallows. "I need to, er, I should go."

The fear in James's eyes sits like lead shot in Nick's throat, heavy and hard. He has no idea what he's done wrong. "Sorry. I…won't keep you," he says quietly. His stomach is currently dwelling somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.

James is looking at the building next to them, and he swallows hard. He drags his eyes to Nick's. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He says roughly, “This was lovely. Thank you."

Nick attempts a smile. "You're welcome. Anytime you like."

"Maybe…" James bites his thumbnail and shoves the other hand deep in his pocket. "Maybe next weekend?"

_Oh_. "Yes. Sure. I'd love that. Yes." In his surprise, Nick tries not to look like an absolute twit.

James gives him a small, bashful smile. "You can pick next time. Just— I know how you chefs are. Can I request a place where the portions are suitable for grown humans? It takes a lot of dainty microgreens to fuel this machine."

Heart thudding, Nick chuckles weakly. "I'll take that into consideration, Sergeant Hathaway sir."

The corners of James's mouth quirk up. "Thank you, Chef."

"That's Mr. Driscoll to you," Nick says with mocking venom. 

"Yes. Of course." James ventures a full-on smile as he turns to go, and Nick's stomach twists with the loveliness of it. "My mistake."

Nick smiles softly. "Goodnight, James."

"Goodnight."


	2. New Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as a serialised romance novel, set in the Lewis universe. Each new chapter will drop every other day until the 25th, at which point there will be a one-off Christmas special. Feel free to enjoy it piecemeal, or glut on it all at once. Enjoy.
> 
> A bucketload of thanks goes to Mazarin221b, who was the cheerleader, the beta, the whipcracker, and the catalyst for this thing. Thanks ever so, Maz.

That following Friday, Nick is early. He’s already seated, anxiously fiddling with his spoon when James comes in, and the light from the sconce on the wall paints his auburn hair the colour of shadow and flame.

He grins cheekily when James approaches the table, pulling a face. Nick already knows what he’s going to say, and he’s right. “You told me this place was called ‘The Smoking Fig.’”

“It is.”

"It’s called _La Figue Fumante_. You brought me to a French restaurant.”

“Yes,” Nick says, amused. James raises an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t fuss,” he smirks, “yes it’s French, but it’s not _that_. kind of French. You’re not going to go hungry. _Trust me_.”

“Okay…” James says with trepidation, and he sits. The place is _tiny_ , only about twenty tables, but it’s warmly-lit and clean, and the exposed brick walls are rustic and roughly-charming. They’re tucked up in the back, in a cozy corner near the entrance to the kitchen.

Their waiter comes over and hands James a menu, then offers one to Nick with a strangely bemused expression. Nick takes it with a lopsided grin. “I’m sure Luc has changed it about seven times since.”

“More like fourteen,” the waiter smirks, as he turns over their water glasses and fills them. He sounds just barely French.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Nick agrees, smirking back, then turns to James. “This fine gentleman,” he says, “is called Jean-Paul. He and his brother run this lovely establishment.”

“Your Nicholas used to work here,” the waiter says.

Nick rapidly turns crimson. _His Nicholas? Oh thanks, Jean-Paul._ “It. Erm. Er, for years, before and during my time at library school.”

“He used to read during his breaks. Sitting on an upended bucket outside the back door, with his cigarette.”

Nick smiles, a bit shy. “Had to get it all done somehow.”

Jean-Paul claps Nick firmly on the shoulder and nods at their menus. “You decide. You’ll like the Singapore ketchup, Nicholas. You with your spices.” He takes their drink orders and he’s gone, through the double doors to the kitchen and away.

“ _Singapore ketchup_ ,” James says, eyebrows raised.

Nick gestures at James’s menu with his chin. “Look. You’ll see.” He watches James’s face avidly for the reaction. There are the expected dishes—a few starters, endive salads, coq au vin, some seafood—but the menu is largely dominated by the layout for its specialty: steak frites. 

James grins at Nick, and Nick can’t help but grin back. “I told you so,” he says, and they just keep smiling at each other. “No dainty microgreens here. Luc wouldn’t let you leave until we had to roll you out the door, if he could help it.”

“Fantastic,” James says, his eyes alight.

“I suggest you stick with the classic with béarnaise. If you’re going to go off-book, try something new to go with the frites.”

“I’m rather fond of aioli,” James says, scanning the choices. “Or dijon.”

Nick looks up at him from under his raised brow. “You don’t want to try something…different? Look.” He points. “Creamy scallion with mustard seeds. Or tzatziki. Or spicy satay.”

James looks a little overwhelmed with the choices. “What are you having?”

“If Jean-Paul says I’ll like the singapore ketchup, I’ll be steered by him. Gladly.”

“Spices?”

“I expect it’s sort of…curry-like. How about this. How about we get several kinds, and try them all?”

James agrees, and they pick a scattering of choices so that by the time Jean-Paul comes back with their drinks, they have a sizeable list for him.

They talk about work for a while. Nick is excited about helping with a research project that involves children’s books, and he tries not to be an enormous geek about the database they’re using, and he listens while James describes the database systems he has to deal with every day. Then their food arrives, and Jean-Paul sets down tiny white crock after tiny white crock, and he grins down at the spread for a moment before he says, “Enjoy,” with a tiny bow of his head and he disappears again.

Nick only catches himself after he’s already swiped a rogue drip of sauce off the otherwise-lovely plating. He snorts and apologises. “Old habits,” he explains with a lopsided smile. “Still, that’s just sloppy. Must be someone’s fag break.”

James quirks a reserved smile. “Do you always do other people’s work for them?”

“If they’ve not done it right, and it’s necessary, sure,” Nick says. “And plating correctly is _easy_.”

James doesn’t answer, he just gives Nick a bemused look and scans the table. His expression morphs to a pout. “They’ve missed my aioli.”

For a moment, Nick is fixated on that jutting lower lip, his dark eyes getting darker, but then he refocuses. “Ah. Yes. I…wait, is this it?” He tastes a bit of the yellow sauce on the tine of a fork. “Nope. I think that’s the mustard ale.”

James looks disappointed, but he shrugs. “Well, I’m not lacking alternate options.” And he dips a frite into one of the crocks. He pulls the most spectacular face Nick has ever seen _not_ on the telly. “Auuuugh.”

Nick cracks up. “The disappointment keeps getting worse?”

“I _hate_ bleu cheese.”

Nick watches him gulp his ale to wash it down, and even that is so endearing he can’t help but grin. “My apologies.” He nabs the small crock and plunks it firmly on his side of the table. “More for me, then.”

“Please,” James says, seeming finally to have recovered from his minor trauma.

They dig in, but after long minutes pass with no sight of Jean-Paul, Nick starts to get antsy. Finally, he pushes back from the table. “Cover me, I’m going in.”

James looks up from his steak, confused. “Huh?”

“I’m going in, Jim,” Nick says with his best American accent. “Gonna release those hostages. If I don’t make it back, tell my wife and kid I love them.”

James snickers and looks around him covertly. “I’ll do my best sir.”

Nick crouches next to James’s chair and claps him on the shoulder. “Get home, Jenkins. Don’t be a hero.” And he sneaks over to the door to the kitchen, head swiveling around as if looking for snipers.

As he pushes through the doors he hears, faintly, James’s voice going, “Jim Jenkins?”

Only half a minute later the doors swing open, but at first no one goes through. Then eyes appear, and they scan the room. In short succession then appear a face, shoulders, then the rest of Nick, sneaking around still at a crouch. He’s bearing not one but two small crocks, and as he scoots by he slides them onto the table. He collapses with exaggerated relief into his chair. “I made it, Jenkins. No need to shag my wife.”

James coughs a laugh, and grins. Nick lifts his head from where it had fallen against the chair back and looks at him, and they’re suddenly giggling like schoolboys. Nick can’t stop looking at James, even over his fingers when he tries to stopper the giggles with his hand. It’s funny all out of context, and it looks like even James is having trouble stopping. Nick feels relieved all of a sudden, feels as if a solid weight of tension had been pressing down on him throughout the date and that weight had suddenly disappeared. He blows out a heavy breath. It shakes a little toward the end. But James snorts with laughter just then, and that kicks Nick off once more. He covers his face with his hands, hoping that if he doesn’t _look_ at James it will be easier to stop. He peeks, however, and the sight of James’s bent head and shaking shoulders keeps the giggles going for nearly another minute.

“S-Stop,” he begs.

“I’m trying,” James wheezes.

“It’s not that funny.”

“I kn-now.”

With a massive gathering of strength, Nick presses his hands to his face and forces several calming inhalations, and eventually can control himself again. He doesn’t move his hands, or look through his fingers, but when he hears James quiet as well Nick says, “Are you done?”

James snickers, then clears his throat. “Yes.”

Cautiously Nick lowers his hands and looks across the table. James’s face is flushed bright red and he’s wiping tears from his eyes. Nick feels worn-out, empty, and relaxed as hell. He slumps in his chair and takes a massive breath, then blows it out slowly through pursed lips. He grins, eyes dancing. “Was it good for you?”

“Quite,” James smirks, and scrubs his face with his palms.

Finally Nick feels like he can eat again. He dips a frite into one of the new additions. “Fig,” he says. “I can’t believe we forgot to order this.”

“They won’t mind you– your hostage release mission?”

Nick makes a dismissive noise. “No. I’ll tell Jean-Paul when he shows up again.”

“Where’s he gone?”

After scanning the few other dining couples in the restaurant, Nick says, “It must be time for his fag break, actually.”

“Mine too.”

“You sit your arse down, Jenkins. I pilfered that aioli fair and square, so you eat it while your frites are still warm. There are kids in the demilitarised zone who’ve never had warm frites like those, you ingrate.”

For a moment it seems as if Nick is going to lose James to the giggles again, but they both manage to continue their meals without too much extra hilarity. Nick looks up from his steak at one point and catches the tail end of James looking back down at his plate, a small smile on his lips. It causes a warm flutter of happiness to erupt in his belly.

…

 

“How strong is your stomach?”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Why, are you about to tell me something gross from work?”

“Nope,” James says, shaking his head, amused. “School.”

“Go on, then,” Nick says, feeling brave.

“When I was at school, there was a kid who used to hoard food in his room. Once, he smuggled some sort of beef thing—a burger, perhaps, or a bit of steak–back to his room for a midnight snack.”

“The fact that you aren’t actually sure what kind of food it was, but you know it was beef, makes me worry for where this story is going.”

James smirks, not unkindly. “He managed to store it away, but his friends convinced him to sneak out after curfew, and in the ensuing endorphin rush he completely forgot about it. Somehow it ended up underneath his trunk, where he didn’t find it until the end of term.”

Nick is horrified. “What— How—”

But James is already anticipating the questions. “I don’t know why he didn’t smell it rotting. Or his roommate. Or anyone else. I have absolutely no idea.”

Nick pushes a frite around on his plate for a few moments. “Was it gross? When he found it?”

“Oh, you have absolutely no idea,” James replies quickly.

Nick laughs. “And that’s speaking as someone who has probably seen some rank things for work.”

James raises his eyebrows and laughs. “Exactly.”

“What put you in mind of _that_ story?”

With a bit of a blink, James gestures at his plate. “Beef.”

Nick chuckles. “Fair enough.” He eats a bite of his food. “I didn’t encounter anything like that at school. The most foul thing I had to deal with was a roommate I had for one term who drew a face on his wank sock.”

James coughed and spluttered, but managed to swallow his mouthful of steak. “What?”

“He used the same one the whole time I knew him. He named it Sarah.”

James starts laughing, hard. He looks around at the rest of the diners, beginning to blush. “He had a permanent wank sock named Sarah?”

“I think it was love,” Nick says, holding his hand over his heart in a mock-swoon and rolling his eyes up to the sky. He looks like a medieval icon of a saint, a devotional figure in paint and board.

…

 

“You never were head boy.”

James raises his hand as if making an oath. “I do not tell a lie.”

“You don’t seem at all like the horrid little swot we had.” And as soon as he’s said it, Nick wishes he could take it back. He cringes. “Sorry. That came out completely wrong.”

Flatly, James says, “No, I suppose that’s fair.”

“It’s just…” Nick tries to cover over it with words. “Bateman didn’t have a stick up his arse—he had the whole tree. And you’re nice. And funny. And you play music.” He looks at James with apology written all over his face. “Not horrid at all. Or swottish.”

“People change,” James says quietly, shrugging one shoulder.

“They do,” Nick replies, prodding a bit of steak with his fork. “Thank christ.”

James clears his throat a little and shifts uneasily in his chair.

“Listen, sorry,” Nick says again, still looking down at his plate as he drags the tines of his fork through the sauce on his plate. “I should have worded that better. I guess I’m still a little bitter. It’s not a very attractive quality, I’m aware.”

James is glancing up at him curiously. “You know, if he did someth—no—wait, sorry. You do _not_ have to tell me. You’re not a suspect, you’re my…” He blushes slightly. “…Date. Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s fine. It wasn’t…that. He just…” Nick sighs. “He abused his privilege, that’s all. It made it pretty damn miserable for me for a while.”

James frowns and swallows. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Nick brushes it off with a one-shouldered shrug. “I wasn’t always the cool, handsome frood you see before you.” He looks up at James to give him a wry, bashful smile.

And after a moment, James returns the smile. “Same,” he says quietly.

They continue to look at each other, and the smiles turn warm. Nick blinks slowly.

“I, er.” James’s gaze flickers down to his plate. “I don’t do this that often.”

“Do what?”

“That might be an exaggeration. I almost _never_ do this. Go on dates. It’s only recently…” James interrupts himself with a small shake of his head. “This is new for me. Dating. At all.”

Nick tilts his head. “You didn’t?”

James is giving him a complex look as he shakes his head again. “Not for many years.”

“Can…I ask why?”

And James shrugs a shoulder, looking back down to his plate and spearing a frite with his fork. “It’s a long story,” he says quietly.

Nick is curious as hell, but he keeps his teeth together on the subject. “Well. You’re here now,” he says, and smiles at James when he looks up again.

“I am,” James smiles shyly back.

…

 

“No.” Nick shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t. He was my sister’s boyfriend.”

“How much older is she?” James asks, and takes a bite of steak.

“Six years. The _perfect_ age for her to have been bringing gorgeous men around when I was just at the ripe age to pop. It was torture.”

“You didn’t…you know…try it on with them or anything…”

Nick snorts. “Not for a moment. Are you joking? I mostly hid in my room and tried to ignore it until it went away.”

James huffs a laugh. “How did that work out for you?”

"Well. I got a lot of reading done. And I had practically a _harem_ of wank socks.”

…

 

When Jean-Paul suggests dessert, Nick practically lights up. “Creme Brulée?” he asks, looking exceedingly hopeful.

Jean-Paul nods. “Absolutely.” Then he looks at James, who in turn looks at Nick.

Nick nods vociferously. “If you like it all, I recommend it. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

Which is how they both end up with bowls of glassine caramelised sugar and smoothest custard. He stays James’s hand just before he breaks the shell. “Wait,” he says. “Together.” And he looks up from under his brows at James, absolute joy sparkling in his eyes. He poises with his spoon over the crust, waiting for James to follow. Then he counts down. “Three, two, one, crack.” And he grins madly at James, who starts to grin back.

He watches James’s face for his reaction to the first bite, and isn’t disappointed. James’s eyes threaten to roll back and he makes a tiny noise in his throat. “Holy hell,” he says around the mouthful.

“Good, right?” Nick grins. He continues to watch James eat.

Eventually James notices. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?”

“Delayed gratification,” Nick purrs with lopsided smile. “I’m enjoying watching you enjoy yours so much.”

James’s cheeks pink a little, but he smiles, and he scoops up another spoonful. It falters on its way to his mouth, and he deflates, still smiling. “Well now I’m having trouble performing.”

Nick throws his head back with a laugh. “Sorry. Sorry, don’t let me obstruct your pleasure.”

James chuckles and continues eating, and Nick takes his first bite. He tries to temper it for company, but _fuck_ if it’s not better than he’d remembered. He’s unable to hold back a quiet moan. He swears his toes curl in his boots.

He looks up while he lets the sugar melt on his tongue, but James is looking off to the side, blushing. Suddenly his eyes shift. Nick’s stomach swoops as James looks directly into his eyes, and after a moment is unable to keep a bright smile from spreading across his face. To his delight, James smiles right back. Then he ducks his head shyly, and, tentatively, they go back to their desserts.

Nick feels joy coming out his pores.

…

 

At the end of the evening they walk over to where Nick’s car is parked. There is a heavy moment of tension at first, as each stands there waiting for the other to break the silence. All Nick can think about was the failure of the kiss last time. James’s hands are stuffed in his pockets and he stares at his feet. He glances up at Nick. “I had a nice night,” he says bashfully.

“Me too,” Nick says. The wine and the warmth of the building have left pink streaks across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and the back of his neck is hot. “Thanks.”

James’s smile broadens. “Thank _you_.” There is a moment of hesitation, then he steps in to kiss Nick on the cheek. “Erm. I’d like to call you tomorrow…?”

Nick feels a thrill down to his toes, and nods. “Yeah. Yes.” He smiles. “Please. Or text, whichever you…”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. …Goodnight.”

They stand there for another long moment, then Nick presses a kiss to James’s cheek. “Goodnight,” he murmurs, smiling, and gets into his car.

He watches James walk all the way down the block, until he disappears around the corner. He grins. Then he reaches for his seatbelt and feels a twinge that suggests his stomach muscles are going to hurt like hell the next day, all from laughing so hard. It’s the kind of twinge that means the ache will be delicious, and Nick knows already the pain will _absolutely_ be worth it.

…

 

`J: I had fun last night. Thanks again.`

`N: Me too.`

`N: I have Sunday off. We could do something, if you’re free?`

`J: That works nicely for me, too. Did you have something in mind?`

`N: There’s a nice coffee shop near me. Coffee? Bookstore?`

`J: Yes, I’d like that. I was hoping to have a bit of a lie in, and then I have some errands to run, so maybe around 1?`

`N: Great. :)`

`J: Text me directions?`

`N: Oh! Yes. Right. Sorry.`

`J: Alternatively you could try to beam them directly into my head, but previous experiments with that have not been very successful. :)`

`N: No, no, fair enough. I won’t expect telepathy until at least the sixth date.`

`J: That’s more like it.`


	3. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
>  
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a shedload of thanks go to Mazarin221b, the current, once, and future beta.

_Oh hell on a biscuit._

James gets out of his car and strolls over to where Nick waits, pulling the ends of his sleeves over his hands in reaction to the bluster of the April afternoon. It's the first time Nick has seen him in something other than a suit, and it's a gut-punch, a visceral shock that's more than the sum of his clothing. He looks relaxed and touchable and… _fuck_. Nick runs his hand through his hair and stands.

"Hey."

"Hi," James says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. "I _need_ a coffee."

"Erm, yeah. Let's…" Nick gestures with his head and turns on his heel to go inside.

The bring their coffees back out and perch on a low wall instead of taking up a table. Nick wraps his hands around his cup to warm them; the sun is out, and spring is starting to make a serious attempt at blooming, but the wind is still cold.

"So which bookshop did you want to go to?"

"Do we have to choose? One, I mean."

Nick is pleasantly surprised. "No. Not at all. I have all day."

"So do I," James pronounces, and sips his coffee with a grateful expression on his face.

…

They first hit a store around the corner, a Platonic ideal of a bookshop, dusty and small and crowded. Nick feels joy lightening his chest as they step in, and catches James staring at him from the corner of his eye. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing." James smiles to himself, and goes over to a display of Romantic horror novels, largely dog-eared versions of Dracula and Frankenstein.

Nick bypasses the row of self-congratulatory books about Oxford and goes for the group of oversized books against the wall, full-colour books on sailboats and Monet, wide and flat and designed to draw attention on a coffee table. He skims the bindings for anything that catches his interest. "Ooh." He pulls out a volume full of black and white photographs of gargoyles, with prose by a popular author. Nick hears James come up behind him then crouch down with an exhale, and he's there looking over Nick's shoulder, smelling like warm cotton and freshly-showered man. Nick swallows.

"What did you find?"

Nick flips the cover over so James can see, then opens it up to a random page.

"Hm," James says, looking down at the photo of a crumbling face surrounded by stone leaves.

"Our Father Gerald had a thing about greenmen, actually. I used to think they were creepy when I was young, but now… I don't know. I kind of like them."

"Father Gerald?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Catholic?"

"I was." Nick gives James a quick glance over his shoulder before turning the page. "It…passed."

"Passed."

Nick's eyes flick to the shop owner puttering behind the counter ten feet behind them, and James stands up with a bit of a cough. He sidles down to the books on Ancient Civilisations, leaving Nick to finish paging through his own.

…

They wander up and down the rows, and after about three quarters of an hour each has a tidy pile.

"What else did you get?" Nick asks.

James shows him a handful of books—a discussion of Kant, something about Jericho in the modern age, and a biography of Fats Waller—and peers down at the books tucked under Nick's arm. "Philip K Dick?"

"And an illustrated copy of _A Brief History of Time_ , and the same Romantic and Victorian literature primer I had in school and loved."

"Nice."

"I thought so. Look." Nick thumbs through the primer and finds an illustration, an engraving of some sailors on the deck of a ship cowering under icicles away from a large bird. "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This was one of my favourites. I have no…idea…why."

"The albatross."

Nick is reminded of their second conversation, and smiles. "Yep."

"The albatross looks sort of like a dodo."

"Maybe that's why," Nick smirks. James is standing perpendicular to Nick, leaning over, and his chest brushes against the sleeve of Nick's shirt. Heart suddenly pounding, Nick leans sideways just a little to rest a bit of his weight against James. James leans back, and for one stuttering moment all of Nick's attention is caught by the heat of James's torso pressing into his shoulder. He swallows and marshals his focus, and nervously starts paging through the book again. Neither of them have broken contact. Nick is having trouble finding what he's looking for— _he's still there, why hasn't he moved, oh god I just want to_ —but eventually finds it. The large colour illustration is a dead giveaway.

"Blake?" James asks, his voice oddly restrained.

" _The Song of Los_." Nick traces his fingertips down the center of the picture, a soft, dark painting with a kneeling, prostrate man in white in the foreground. "I love this painting," he murmurs.

"Why?" His voice is so _soft_.

"It feels… It reminds me of prayer. _Real_ prayer. The submission of self, supplication. Putting yourself at the will of something else."

James is quiet for a few long, drawn-out, seconds. Nick can feel him breathing against his shoulder. "That's." He swallows. "Lovely."

"I think so too," Nick whispers. They stand there for a few more moments, staring at the painting. Nick clears his throat. "Right. Let's. Er."

"Yes." At last James leans back and steps away, and they go to the counter to pay.

…

Outside, James offers for Nick to put his books in the boot of his car, and then they walk a few blocks in the other direction to another shop. 

"Catholic?" James asks, his hands stuffed back into his pockets again.

"Erm. Yeah," Nick says. "Until I was about…I don't know. Fourteen. Fifteen."

"What happened? I mean. Do you mind me asking?"

"Nnnno." Nick runs his hand through his hair. "It was… Well. The, erm, gay. Thing."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

They walk for a while. Then Nick pipes up again. "It got a bit…rough there, for a while. And, er, rather than being the source of succor the church was supposed to be, it was. Well. To be honest, the seed of the problem."

"With your parents?"

"My family, yeah. And the rest of the parish around us."

There is silence for a few moments. "That sounds lonely."

"You have _no_ idea."

"Perhaps not. But you don't know. I might.”

Something in James's voice catches at Nick, and abruptly he has to stifle the almost-overwhelming urge to take his elbow. Then he swallows, and he doesn't stifle it at all.

James startles when he feels Nick's hand slip against the side of his body and wrap around the joint, and he looks down at it, but regroups quickly. He faces forward again and actually squeezes Nick's hand briefly between his arm and his side. The tension melts away, and then all of a sudden they're just walking together, connected. Nick's chest is tight.

"I was at seminary," James says quietly, out of (almost) nowhere.

Nick's head snaps over to him. _What._ “When?”

“After I left Cambridge.”

“I had no idea.”

James makes a slight cough of laughter. “I don’t usually talk about it.”

“That’s. God.”

James chuckles wryly. “Quite.”

Nick chuckles along, and feels the waffle knit of James’s shirt at his fingertips. “I meant—“

“No, I understand. I don’t really fit the profile, you don’t think.”

“Actually…” Nick looks at him thoughtfully. “That’s not true, now I think about it.”

“Really.”

“The central personality trait for the priests I’ve known has been passion. And you have it in spades.”

James looks sideways at him as if he’s gone mad. “You don’t know that.”

“I do. And it’s not just wishful thinking. It’s perfectly clear to me.” He’s aware he sounds a little arrogant, but he doesn’t much care.

“I don’t think anyone else would say that.”

“I think anyone who knows you would say that. I think if I asked Lewis, he would say that.”

“You sound certain.”

“Your control masks it, but you’ve clearly never watched yourself talk about something you care about.”

“You’re right, I haven’t.” They walk a little bit, then James gestures at a bench. “Do you mind if I stop and smoke?”

Nick shakes his head, and they both settle onto it, a body’s-width between them.

James shakes out a cigarette and lights up, exhaling heavily as he leans against the bench’s back. “So that doesn’t surprise you.”

“Well, it does, a little. I certainly didn’t expect it. But now that I know…no. It doesn’t surprise me. They’re not… I mean.” Nick studies his hands.

“What?” James prompts, looking at him as he sucks in a lungful.

“They’re not altogether dissimilar, are they?”

James looks wary, but intrigued. “And how you do you figure that?”

“They’re…” Nick is a bit embarrassed he’s brought it up. “Both are concerned with the well-being of others, each to some extent before and after death. Both are concerned with mysteries, whether divine or earthly. Both take dedication in your life, both require you to be intelligent if you’re going to excel, both are…” Nick stops himself with a cough, gone red.

“Some of those could apply to any number of professions,” James points out.

“That’s true,” Nick says, a bit disheartened, wanting quite a bit to crawl into a hole. “Never mind, I’m just talking rubbish.”

James shifts, and the back of his knuckles brush Nick’s thigh. He doesn’t move them away. “You’re not…entirely wrong. There _is_ a reason why this is where I ended up once I left.”

“Can I…ask why you left?”

James seems to slump deeper into his skin, and Nick thinks he’s not going to answer. But then he speaks up. “That’s a really, _really_ long story. But. The short version is, I became increasingly unsure there was a God at all, and that’s not a tenable position for a priest to be in.”

“No, I…don’t imagine it is.” They sit, and James smokes his cigarette. “You read theology, though?”

James nods.

“Some day, will you tell me?”

“The story?”

“Yes.”

James silently finishes his cigarette, and stands, his lips pressed tightly. “Come on. We’ve more shopping to do.”

Nick can’t swallow, but he follows anyway.

…

The second bookstore is cleaner, drier, and less interesting. Nick finds an old monograph on the mathematics of Galileo that he coos over, and James finds a pair of volumes about the history of Christianity in Rome that he pokes at, but in the end only Nick walks out with the slim title under his arm.

“Where to now?” he asks James, hoping that the last of the awkwardness will have melted away.

“Are you hungry?” James asks, glancing at him and then away down the street again. He shocks Nick by plucking away his parcel, tucking it under his far arm, and then reaching over and taking his hand. It feels like…an apology, more than anything, but Nick will take it.

“A bit, yeah. Breakfast was ages ago.”

“Would you like a sandwich? Curry?”

Nick is quiet for a bit, thinking.

“I’m buying,” James says.

“No no, that’s not— I mean— I was just trying to think what I was in the mood for.” Nick blushes.

“Sorry, I’ll just— Give you time to decide. Sorry.”

Nick is only now starting to adjust to the feeling of James’s hand in his. “It’s a casual sort of day. How do you feel about pizza?”

James looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and his expression is suddenly a bit awkward and shy. “Sounds good.” He coughs, and abruptly Nick realises how nervous James is. He wonders if it’s the date, the hand-holding, or if he’s done something.

“Do you… Erm.” Nick swallows. “Where do you want to go?”

“Do you have a preference?”

“There’s a place I like, but it’s. We’d have to drive.”

“Let’s go then.”

“You’re sure?”

James squeezes his hand, looks at him, then goes red. “Yes.”

…

James’s Peugeot is…clean. Far more than Nick’s Clio. The water bottles in the back seat are the same, though, as is the giant stack of paper napkins wedged in the door pocket. Still, he apologises for the mess, and they pull out onto the street as Nick gives directions to the restaurant.

There is quiet in the car ride over. James's stereo is playing at low volume some sort of fusion of progressive rock and jazz that transitions to alternative rock, and the air blowing out of the vents smells like stale cigarettes, but it's still somewhat comforting, somewhat familiar. James makes his way sedately through traffic, and about ten minutes into the ride Nick asks what they're listening to.

"Porcupine Tree," James says, and gestures to his iPod where it's sitting in the drinks compartment.

Nick reaches, then stops himself. "May I?"

James nods and hums, and so Nick scrolls through James's music collection. There's all sorts in there—jazz and funk and old-school hip hop, 90s rock and 60s folk—and Nick starts to make a mental list of all the music he wants to listen to if he gets a chance. He starts to form a plan of sorts, an idea about supper at one of their houses, a chance to relax and listen to music and drink wine and talk. Maybe he can wedge it into the conversation at the restaurant. And maybe James will say yes.

They pull into a car park, and it's just as bizarrely crowded as it always is for late afternoon on a work day. James holds the door open for him with a charming and awkward bow, and Nick can't keep the grin from his face as they seat themselves at a booth against the large window in front.

The telly up at the bar is twenty feet away, just far enough that they can see the test match but not hear it, and they're sheltered from the draft of the door by a brick wall, and on the whole the place is warm and familiar and Nick is struck by insecurity, a wonder and a hope whether James will enjoy this place as much as he does.

A waitress comes by to drop off menus and take a drinks order, and they stare at their menus for a while. Nick's attention is repeatedly distracted by the way James's hands look as they absentmindedly fidget with a plastic straw.

James starts chuckling. " _The Thai_?"

"Don't mock, it's pretty good," Nick says. "The thai basil pesto on it is excellent."

"No cheese or tomato. Hardly constitutes a pizza at all."

"Just don't order the Elvis Presley," Nick warns with a smirk.

James looks at the menu listing and grimaces. "Peanut butter and banana?"

"Yeah. I mean, I've a sweet tooth _and_ I went to culinary school, but even _I_ think they must be taking the piss." He shrugs. "People order it, though. It's been on the menu for as long as I've been coming here."

"What do you usually order?"

Nick's eyes rake over the menu. "I like the _Erik the Red_ , since I'm partial to smoked and creamy flavours together, but since it's got red potato on it I don't often get chips at the same time. But since this is your first time here, and they're frankly _fantastic_ , we'll have to get some of them. That being the case, I'm also partial to the _Mycenaean_."

"Fig balsamic and feta?"

"And the spicy tomato sauce, which has just enough rosemary in it to…" Nick groans with imagined pleasure. " _Ungh_. It's so good."

James stares at him, and swallows visibly. "I think we should have that, then."

Nick grins broadly at him. "Okay. You're okay with oil-cured olives?" James nods, and Nick keeps smiling. "You're not going to regret this. This pizza is so good it doesn't even need any of the extras."

"The extras?"

Nick points to a side wall, which is covered in shallow shelves on which are perched all manner of jars, bottles, packets, and shakers. "Almost any additive you can think of that people might want on a pizza. Hot sauces, red pepper flakes, brown sauce, mayonaisse, mustards. I think they even have marmite."

"That sounds…" James looks wary.

"Hey, no accounting for taste. People like weird stuff, and this restaurant will indulge you. I don't like to judge; I toast their experimentation."

Slowly, James smiles at him, and it's like the sun coming out.

"What?" Nick says, a bit bashfully.

"Are you the nicest person I've ever met?"

Nick makes a dismissive noise. "I can snark with the best of them. And I'm no pushover."

"I know. That's not what I said," James shakes his head. "Nice doesn't equate to weak. And I've heard the snark, but I don't think I've seen you once actually be mean-spirited."

Tilting his head and staring into the middle distance, Nick considers this. "I try not to be." James is staring and smiling again. Nick shifts in his seat. He looks out the window into the bluing light of pre-dusk. Under the table, he feels James's legs move, and suddenly his left calf is being squeezed between both of James's own. His eyes snap to James's. They gaze at each other for long seconds, and Nick barely breathes. It feels monumentally intimate, quietly sexual, and in spite of the subtlety of their pose Nick wonders how long it will take for someone to come up to the table and suggest in a bumbling, British way for them to get a room. It's just a touch of legs, but whether it's because this whole…thing…is moving so slowly, or because calf-to-calf is an unusual sort of contact, it's somehow far more thrilling than it should be. James was scared about their relatively-chaste kiss, but this… Nick wonders how he can stand it. He himself is torn between breaking the gaze and shifting away or throwing himself into James' lap for something more _overtly_ sexual.

As it turns out, his decision is made for him when the waitress comes back to take their order. Nick relaxes in his seat, but James's legs are still sandwiching his own, and it's quite a bit distracting. He fumbles through their order with pink in his cheeks.

When their food comes, James's legs are still touching Nick's, and in the back of his mind Nick has been constantly wondering whether this, finally, was the night—the night for _anything_ , really, anything more than a small kiss, and their relationship is so off the usual plan that Nick is floundering. By this point in other relationships he would have expected at least a lengthy snog session, if not sex. Especially with attraction this…thick.

Nick swallows away the tightness in his throat and serves up pizza and hand-cut chips.

James likes the pizza, it turns out. So much so that he keeps making small noises of enjoyment that, while gratifying in the sense that Nick has done well choosing the venue, are also so goddamn sexy that the pizza turns flavourless and pale in his mouth and his mind is simply filled with images of James making those small noises in bed. _Is_ James noisy in bed? Does he moan? What sound would he make if Nick bit him gently on the—

"How did you find this place?" James asks, taking a sip of his lemonade.

 _What? Oh._ "I, er, I had a…group of friends who used to come here."

"They don't anymore?"

"They might. We've…sort of gone our separate ways."

"I have some university mates like that,"James says. "We seldom talk. Usually just when someone needs a favour."

"University was ages ago, anyhow. I think we've all moved on to bigger and better." James shrugs slightly and eats his pizza, and the obvious lack of agreement or disagreement makes Nick curious. He wants to press James on that, but thinks it might be too soon in their relationship, so he eats a chip instead. "Is being one of the police like being a member of a secret university club?"

"I don't know what you mean."

Nick shrugs slightly, and a smile creeps in. "All…raucous secret parties, and private handshakes? Friends everywhere, fit to do you a favour everywhere you need them?"

James sips his drink. "If they _are_ having raucous parties every night, they're not inviting me."

"You don't seem like you'd be keen to go even if they did."

"Is it that obvious?" James says drily.

"A bit," Nick smiles. "I think your idea of a nice evening is to sit at home with a book and an album and some scotch, with or without company."

James actually looks at him. "You're…not wrong."

"Sounds like a fantastic night to me," Nick says, and punctuates this by eating a chip.

A smile quirks the corner of James's mouth. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's how I spend a good portion of my evenings, these days. When I'm not at the pub with Ian and Mel."

"And Clive?"

Nick smiles. "And Clive. And Clive's fiddle."

"Sounds busy."

"Balances out my evenings alone with the shadows of Mr. Douglas Adams and Mr. Oban for company."

"Hey, they've not steered me wrong," James says before polishing off a slice of pizza.

"Except for the hangovers."

James smiles ruefully. "Except for the hangovers."

…

All too soon, the food is gone and they're both leaning heavily on the bench-backs, stretching to ease the overly-full feeling.

"Why do I always end up stuffed to the gills when I'm with you?" James asks.

"Just lucky, I guess." Nick grins, and he rubs his stomach with both palms.

"Are you trying to give me subliminal messages about my weight?"

Nick snickers and says, "They wouldn't be very subliminal if you thought to ask that."

James smiles and looks away to the telly on the corner, chuckling. "That _is_ true."

It's silent between them for a few seconds, and Nick stifles a burp. James doesn't turn his head but his eyes shift sideways to look at him, and he snorts quietly with a tiny laugh.

"Pardón," Nick says, trying to tamp down on a sophomoric giggle.

James, however, does giggle. "Also, why do I always end up laughing at the most childish things when I'm with you?"

"Still lucky, I guess," Nick says, and his grin this time is warmer, more fond.

James's eyes narrow as he appears to weigh up Nick, the conversation, the situation in general. He grins back and gives his results slowly, as if his brain were only coughing up one word at a time. "I…think…I agree with you."

...

They pull up to Nick's door and he musters up the courage to offer.

"It's still early. Do you want to come in? Listen to some music? Have a drink?"

There's a flash of something unintelligible on James's face that settles into regret. "I can't tonight. I've got to be in early tomorrow, and I have a few things around the house to take care of before then."

The rejection was anticipated, but it still stings. Nick nods. "Maybe next time. I'll cook you supper."

The expression on James's face is warm pleasure, fully genuine this time. "I'd like that."

"What kind of thing would you like? Pasta? Asian? I can—"

He's interrupted with a groan. "Can we settle this by text? I'm way too full to even _think_ about food right now."

Nick snickers happily. "James Hathaway: Slayed by Food."

"If you start in with any food-based punnery I might _actually_ be sick."

"No puns, then. I concede." Nick holds up his hands palm-out in supplication.

To his surprise, James takes one of them in his own and interlaces their fingers. He brings both their hands to his mouth and kisses their knuckles. "Goodnight, Sadistic Chef."

This strikes Nick as _immensely_ funny for reasons he hasn't even gotten _near_ to with James. He laughs loudly. "Yeah. That's right. Sadist, me.” Then he kisses their knuckles himself before opening up James's hand and laying a gentle, open kiss on James's palm. His eyes open and catch James's and his mouth goes dry; James's eyes are hooded, his lips parted, and he looks like nothing so much as someone half a moment from jumping someone else's bones. Nick's throat works. "Erm. Goodnight, Sir," he murmurs. "I'll text you tomorrow."

"Good." James swallows. "Goodnight." They stare at each other, and in a massive feat of will Nick slips from the door. He presses his palm briefly to the cold glass of the window.

"Goodnight."

…

`N: Good morning.`

`J: For about ten more minutes, yes. Hello.`

`N: Hello. :) Having a nice day?`

`J: Paperwork.`

`N: Is that your way of saying you're bored to tears?`

`J: Is that your way of gloating that you're not?`

`N: I'm going to pretend you actually answered my question and said yes.`

`J: Why?`

`N: Because I AM bored. I thought you could share my pain.`

`J: Heh. Fair enough. Do you need me to entertain you?`

`N: Would you rather that then pay attention to your work?`

`J: Perhaps. It's really dull today. But I'm afraid Robbie would get crany with me.`

`J: I mean cranky.`

`N: I think he should get crany with you.`

`J: What would that be?`

`N: Perhaps he fills your desk with cranberries.`

`J: This sounds messy.`

`N: It is. Trust me.`

`J: You have never had your desk filled with cranberries.`

`N: This is why you are with the police. You can suss out a lie from miles away.`

`J: I knew there had to be a reason I've been sitting here entering names in a database all morning.`

`N: Hey, me too!`

`J: I should work, but what are you doing on Friday night?`

`N: Not a thing. Want to come over, and I'll make us supper?`

`J: Yes please. May I bring something?`

`N: Yourself.`

`J: I think I can arrange that. 7?`

`N: I'll see you then. Have fun with the paperwork.`

`J: Have fun with the database.`

`N: :)`


	4. Fusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks and a festive tequila go to to Mazarin221B for the inspiration, the celebration, and…beta-ation. Shh. That's totally a word.

The week drags but eventually Friday does dawn, a day full of warm spring rain and the constant hum of anticipation. It’s been a while since Nick has had to entertain at home, dressed nicely while cooking, and he changes his clothes twice before deciding to go back to the outfit he had on in the first place. He feels utterly fucking ridiculous. Nick curses the nerves fluttering in his stomach as he redresses, and he only just _barely_ finishes getting ready before James is at the door earlier than expected, grinning shyly and looking heartachingly beautiful. There’s no small amount of chagrin that Nick can’t look at him and prepare their meal at the same time; his worktop faces away from the dining table, where James is currently lounging in his chair. 

He scoots it sideways to face Nick, his legs stretched long and lean out in front of him. “What are you making, anyway?” He rests his elbow on the table and the wine glass sways casually in his hand. 

“I don’t really know.”

“You _are_ the one making it, yes?”

Nick chuckles. “Yeah, but it doesn’t really have a _name_. I’m inventing as we speak.”

“But you had to have some sort of _plan_.”

“Sure: Lots of food. Cooked. Vaguely Mediterranean-ish. Spicy.”

James nods once, mouth pouting in a moue. “Fair enough.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Thus the wine and not scotch.”

“Exactly.” Nick tosses a sprig of fresh rosemary into the stock pot. “The wine goes better with this monstrosity than the scotch would.”

“I like it, too.”

“I’m glad. I’m particularly fond of that syrah, myself. It’s not too dry or too sweet. Much like I am, as a matter of fact.” Nick can _almost_ feel James’s little half-smile aimed at his back. He dumps the fingerling potatoes and a lot of salt into the pot and starts it filling in the sink, then swings sideways to continue chopping vegetables. “So what can you tell me about the latest case?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. Woman was found dead in the alley behind an art studio. Looked initially like a robbery, but we’ve determined it wasn’t.”

“Based on something that was there that wasn’t supposed to be, or something that wasn’t that was?”

James huffs a laugh. “Neither? Both. It’s hard to answer that question when I can’t really discuss much of it.”

“Are there any you _can_ tell me about?”

“I can tell you about…Hmmm… Once, years back, there was one that involved a woman who worked for a phone sex line…”

Nick spins half around to stare over his shoulder at James, wide-eyed and knife still in hand. “Really?”

“Yessir,” James says, and takes a sip of his wine. “She had us fooled for a fairly good stretch of time because she was adept at changing her voice.”

“Was she the murderer?”

James screws up his face in thought. “No, not— Sort of. She arranged for others to kill each other.”

“Arranged?”

“Manipulated. With phone calls. Her voice was the key.”

“How did you figure out it was her?”

James turns a little pink. “I had to…er…pretend. I called her for, er, sex.”

At this delicious revelation, Nick actually puts the knife down and turns around to direct all his attention toward James, leaning against the worktop. “How far did the conversation go?” He knows he’s being prurient, but he doesn’t give a shit. The thought of James having phone sex speeds the blood in his veins.

“Not very.” It’s unclear whether James is being smug about that or not. “Just long enough to establish that it was her. Let the software analyse her voice and compare it to a tape we had.”

“Nothing actually explicit, then.”

James is chuckling at him now, that’s clear. “Alas for this little anecdote, no. But I was glad for it at the time.” He looks up to Nick’s curious expression, then explains, “I was at _work_ , Nicholas. There were a lot of people there. If I’d had to go much further, it would have been…immensely embarrassing.”

“Why? They would have known you were playing a role.”

“There are some activities which are revealing even if you are falsifying them, and I believe having fake phone sex is one of them.”

“Afraid they might find out you enjoy sex?”

“I prefer them not to think about me in the same sentence with the word ‘sex’, thank you very much. Being known to be celibate is extremely convenient.”

Nick falls silent, then turns back to his cutting board. He catches the stock pot just about to flow over and puts it on the hob to boil.

Behind him, James clears his throat. “I’m, er, just going to step outside for a cigarette.” He slips out to the back garden and slides the door closed.

Nicks stomach clenches and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. He doesn’t really know what to think about that information, but his heart is in his shoes, and he’s pretty sure his knife skills aren’t helped by the sudden surge of adrenaline. He sets down his knife and walks over to his computer, then starts up a new playlist and sets it playing louder through the large speakers in the lounge, at a volume where it can be heard clearly in the dining nook and kitchen. The lilting voice of Ian Benzie starts to settle the tension in Nick’s shoulders as James comes back inside, bringing with him the tang of a damp night and a whiff of cigarette smoke. 

He resettles in his chair and sips his wine as Nick continues to prepare the meal. The warm, auburn sound of the fiddle weaves around them, underpinned by the visceral thump of a single African drum.

“Who is this?” James asks. “They sound familiar.”

“Old Blind Dogs.”

“I think I’ve heard them before.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Obviously they’re Scottish, but they mix in a lot of global music influence.”

“The djembe, yes, I hear it.”

“They’re one of my favourite bands ever.”

“Why is that?”

“No idea.” Nick starts dividing vegetables into various bowls. “They…comfort me.”

Silence falls again. Perhaps James understands why comfort was necessary all of a sudden. _Being known to be celibate is extremely convenient._ Or perhaps he’s just thinking about African percussion. It’s tough to tell, with him.

The next song is slower, more plaintive, and Nick lets out a quiet sigh as he gets down a large sauté pan and starts caramelising onion, readying the garlic and aubergine and capers and olives.

 _Lay ye doon, love_ , starts the song, and Nick swallows hard. He prays James doesn't interrupt the song with conversation, and mercifully, gratefully, he lets the song speak and is content to listen.

_…I'll treat ye decent  
lay ye doon, love  
I'll full ye can  
Lay ye doon, love  
I'll treat ye decent  
For surely I'm  
an honest man…_

Nick lets the vegetables simmer, and while the flat begins to fill up with the warm smell of garlic he picks up his empty wineglass from the counter. He comes around the island to the table and refills his glass, then tilts the bottle toward James in a silent offer. Their eyes catch and hold, and for a few breaths the song plays and they are frozen in space, staring, connected. Nick blinks. James blinks. And Nick looks down at James's glass to fill it up with wine before going back to his cooking.

_…As I gaed oot ae December evening  
By the watter and the pleasant sand  
As I was walking, I could hear them talking  
Saying, “Surely he is an honest man.”…_

The song ends, and Nick is adding more vegetables to the pan and turning on the flame under perfectly-seasoned cast iron when James speaks.

"An Annotated History of Intoxicants."

Nick smiles wryly. Detective, yes. _Of course_ he would have noticed earlier what book Nick has in the loo. "Tea, chocolate, tobacco, coffee."

"Sounds a bit like the history of my life."

"Mine too." Nick casts a small smile over his shoulder in James's general direction. "With a small detour for an obsession with poncy cheese for a few years, but not everyone counts dehydration and a dairy coma as intoxicating, so." For a few moments, Nick actually considers admitting to the drugs that were rampant in the food industry when and where he was a part of that culture, but shovels that idea to the far, far, back of his mind. Tonight is not the time to bring that up to a former-head-boy-turned-priest-in-training-turned-police-officer. _Never_ might be the appropriate time to bring that up. It's too soon to tell.

“So you were a smoker?” James asks.

"I was. For thirteen years. Finally managed to quit once I left off cooking professionally. Chefs are terrible influences." _Understatement_. "Have you?"

"What, smoked?" James said, confused by the lateral question.

"Tried to quit."

"A few times." James cleared his throat. "Didn't take."

"Why not?"

"Er…”

Nick casts a look at him over his shoulder. 

"I…can't really say."

"Is that code for 'I don't know', or 'I don't want to talk about it'?"

It's quiet behind him for long enough that he's not sure James is going to answer, but then he says, "It's a habit. Habits are tough to break."

They are. Nick knows that as well as anyone. "You need a change of venue, then try it. Might help."

"If past evidence is any indication, I'll just go right back to it once I return."

"We'd need to buy you some sweets or something."

"Does it bother you?"

Nick thinks, for a moment, how to answer that. "No, actually. It's enormously unhealthy, and we both know that, but it's… No."

"Do you miss it?"

"On occasion. I'll probably sit and have a drink while this is all cooking, since that's when I'm used to having a fag."

"Alcohol instead of tobacco?"

"History of intoxicants." Nick burns a sideways smile right at James, and starts to sear the chicken.

True to his word Nick sits down to finish a glass of wine in the five minutes between when the food is finishing and when he needs to stand up to plate it all, and just when he's done it to his high specifications—plating has always been one of Nick's favourite parts, the art of presentation, in the last moments making beautiful to the eye that which he's spent a great deal of time making beautiful to the tongue–the playlist switches over to something new, a fusion of jazz and Celtic that Nick, with a desperate stab of hope, wants James to like.

But he needn't have worried. “Is this Siné?" James says, dividing the last of the wine into both their glasses.

"You don't know Old Blind Dogs, but you know Siné?"

James twitches a shrug, and frowns. "Someone in the band gave me some at some point, along with a bunch of other stuff, and I liked it. Her voice is…smooth."

"As you'd expect from both a jazz vocalist and a _sean nos_ singer."

"True."

Nick dims the lamps to an appropriately-low level, then brings the plates over to the table, setting them down in the artfully-directed light and smiling, pleased with himself.

James looks around at the table setting—the gleaming glass and the dark red wine, the unadorned stainless steel of the cutlery resting on burgundy-coloured napkins, the bright colours on the large white plates, jeweled pops of colour in a setting otherwise quite neutral—then he looks up at Nick with a curious, wary expression on his face. "…Thank you," he says.

Nick's chest tightens for a moment. "You're welcome. But you should wait until you’ve tried it. It could be awful.”

“That doesn’t seem likely, does it.” James is still looking at Nick with that complex expression.

Nick feels a prickle of shyness creep over him, and he picks up his glass and raises it at James. "To cautious optimism."

James expression breaks into a smile. "To cautious optimism." And he clinks his glass with Nick's before taking a sip.

Nick can't help but watch James as he takes his first bite. _He's gonna think I'm creepy, always watching him eat._ But he feels the justification when James's face lights up. "Good?" He finally picks up his fork and knife.

" _Fantastic_ ," James says, holding up his hand in front of his mouth as he talks around his food. He swallows and smiles at Nick, more fondness in his eyes than Nick has yet seen from him. It makes his stomach flip.

"Thank fuck," Nick says, and chuckles shyly. He feels his cheeks pink. Again.

They eat, and chat about nothing in particular, and there is a buoyancy in Nick's chest that has everything to do with the man next to him, to the ease of their interactions, to the fact that right now, for these few minutes, there have been no verbal missteps or miscommunications, no fear, just relaxation and speech and friendship knitting up with food and conversation. Things are free and easy for once. Nick is perfectly, intensely happy.

Afterword, James says he'd like to do the washing up, and Nick is inclined to let him. They both roll up their sleeves, James washes, Nick dries, and somewhere in the middle of it all Nick realises with a warm flutter that _this_ is going well too; domesticity, just a bit of it. It's new. He enjoys it for the length of time it takes to dry and put away a few bowls and then is struck by the familiar worry that at any moment it could all go to shit. He tries to wipe even the thought of it from his mind.

Somehow, in spite of Nick's stunning propensity for sinking his own battleship when it comes to situations like this, they end up sitting on the sofa, working on a second bottle of wine.

"I went running a lot," Nick says, lazing back against the cushions. "When I was home on hols. I needed to be out of the house as much as humanly possible."

"I can understand that. Completely." James sips his wine. "Do you still?"

"What, run?" Nick lifts his head to glance at him, then lets it fall back down. "Not as often as I should."

"We should go. Some morning."

For this, Nick _has_ to drag his head up. "You want to go running with me?"

James shrugs slightly. "Why not?"

"You'll be bored stiff. I'm _sure_ your pace is faster than mine."

"I think it will be fun," James says with a tiny quirk of a smile and a sideways glance at Nick's appalled expression. "I've never had a running partner before."

Nick blinks. "Well, sure. Okay. Sunday morning?"

James starts to grin. "Okay."

"On one condition."

"Hm?"

"You have to feed me afterward."

James laughs.

...

The end of the night barrels down on them too quickly for Nick's liking. All of a sudden he finds himself standing at his doorway, hoping for a kiss he suspects isn't going to come.

Nick doesn't want to see that terror from their first kiss on James's face again so he waits patiently for him to make his move, and though it's not exactly what he's been hoping for the kiss James _does_ press to his cheek makes something warm expand in Nick’s chest. Feeling out the boundaries, he steps in and kisses James's cheek in return, then wraps his arms around his ribs for a hug. He wonders idly if James can feel his pulse thudding through his veins; it certainly seems likely, since Nick’s heart is beating so strongly he can feel it in his throat. To Nick's delight, James hugs him back. 

Nick grins against his shoulder. "Thanks for coming over."

"Thank you for supper."

"It was my pleasure."

James actually squeezes Nick's shoulders before he steps away, which is gratifying, and he kisses Nick's cheek again before backing off and opening the door. "Sunday morning run?"

Nick nods, and a smile spreads across his face. "I'll text you."

"I look forward to it." James looks into his eyes and grins.

…

`N: What time should I be over on Sunday so you can thoroughly embarrass my wimpy arse?`

`J: Depends. What time will you be awake enough for optimal embarrassment?`

`N: At NO TIME will that be convenient for me, thanks.`

`J: 8am, then? I’ll cut you some slack since it’s a Sunday.`

`N: You’re a bloody great pillock. But a considerate one.`

`J: That’s what everyone says, yes.`

`N: Fine. 8am. But then you’re buying me at LEAST something with bacon on it.`

`J: That sounds fair.`

"Are you texting your booooooy?" Mel's grin is bright and cheeky. She bites her lip up at him, big brown eyes shining.

Nick tries to stifle a smile. "He's not my boy."

"Of course he is," she says matter-of-factly, and steals a sip of his lemonade. "The dinner went well last night, I take it."

 _And here comes the blushing_. "Yes. It went well." Nick tries to stifle his smile.

"And you plan to see him again?"

Nick feels bright fucking pink. "Yes, I plan to see him again. We're going running tomorrow morning."

"OoooooOOOOoooh."

"Oh shut up."

“You’re so cute when you’re in love.”

“I’m not—“ Nick sighs. “I’m not.”

“Not _yet_. Hey, at least you're getting _something_ physical out of this guy."

That is a bit less funny. Nick's expression shuts down.

"Aww, hey." Mel squeezes his shoulder. "I'm just teasing. You really like him, don't you."

Nick gives a stuttering nod. "Yes."

"You'll get there, sweetheart.” She hugs around his middle. “Both of you. You'll get there."

…

Nick shows up at James's door about ten minutes early, already in his running clothes.

"Come on," he grins when James opens the door. "Let's get this over with."

James smirks and ushers him into the lounge. "I'm still in the middle of my coffee. Do you want some? Or tea?"

Nick settles down into the chair, then immediately stands up. "No," he shakes his head. "Wait, yes. Coffee's fine, if there's enough."

"There's enough," James says, and gets down another mug. He's careful with the cafetière, trying not to pour too much sludge in with the remaining cup of coffee. "Sugar? Milk?"

Nick presses his mouth into a line and makes a decision. "I think black."

"You think?" James asks, handing him the mug.

Before answering, Nick wraps both hands around it—for comfort, for warmth—and takes a sip. He sighs happily. "Mmm. I _knew_ you'd have good coffee. Anyway. How I take my coffee depends on several things."

"Quality."

"And whether I've just eaten. Or what I've just eaten."

"You're not that picky with tea."

"So you've noticed." Nick gives James a bemused look over the rim of his mug, and sits down into a chair. 

"I've had a sample size of two, but, yes." James gives him a sideways smile.

"Good guess, then."

James sprawls back into his chair and puts his feet on the table. "Mm," he only says, and sips his drink. "Do you want a tour before we go?"

"Of the flat? Maybe afterwards?" Nick grimaces.

About which James chuckles. "You really want this over with."

"I really do."

"What do you think is going to happen?" James smirks.

"You're going to embarrass the hell out of me. You…actually…" Nick gestures at him. "You know. Exercise. On a regular basis."

"You run."

Nick snorts. "When I'm going stir crazy. I'd hardly call it a regular habit."

"Well," James says merrily over his coffee. "Let's make it a habit."

…

"This," Nick wheezes, "was a horrible idea."

They both stumble in the door of James's flat and Nick props himself up against the wall on rubbery legs to pant and sweat.

"Oh, it wasn't that bad," James says, kicking off his trainers near the door and wandering into the kitchen. There's the sound of glass clinking and of a running faucet.

"Yes. It really was." Nick blows out a breath and leans over to support himself on his bent knees. “How are you not wheezing as badly as I am? You still _smoke_.”

“Well…” James hedges with a smirk. “You’re really slow.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nick says, and lets his head hang.

James walks over to hand him a glass of water, but when Nick takes it, instead of drinking from his own James just stands there, his expression evening out into a blank mask. "We don't have to do it again. That's okay." He shrugs and walks over to the lounge to sit in his chair and stare at the coffee table.

Something in his voice tugs at Nick. He totters over to where James is and stretches his legs briefly before sitting down opposite him. "Hey," he says quietly.

James's eyes flick up to his, then away again.

"James, you know I was teasing, right?" With the back of his wrist, Nick wipes off the bead of sweat that trickles down his temple.

"Yes. Sure."

Nick blinks at him, a little furrow beginning between his brows. "I mean, it _was_ embarrassing. But that doesn't mean I'd not be up for doing it again."

James gives him a sidelong glance. "You would."

"Yes," Nick says, and raises his eyebrows with a small smile. "I'm a stubborn bastard."

Seemingly against his will, James coughs a laugh.

"Besides. I have ulterior motives for wanting to match your endurance," Nick says with a smirk. Finally, that gets a little smile, and James shifts his weight to lean against the arm of the chair. " _You_ need to remember that I like you," he says, still smiling.

"Yeah…" James admits shyly. He glances up with a small smile. "I like you too."

"Good," Nick says, thrilling with happiness, and planting his hands on the arms of the chair as if about to push himself to standing. Instead, he just starts coughing. "Sorry," he gasps out. “QED. Not as fit as you."

James appears to be stifling a smirk as he walks over and holds out his hand. "Come on. Walk it off. I'll show you my flat."

...

His flat is clean. Quiet. And has far less shit in it than Nick's does. It's a little embarrassing.

"At least I'm not the only one who still has his vinyl."

Nick kneels down to flip gently through the albums on the bottom shelf. "Men at Work?"

"What, didn't everybody have that one?"

"You're probably right."

"Didn't you?"

Nick snorts through his nose, sliding the album back into place. "Yes."

"See?" James is grinning and standing too close. He lifts his his foot and pokes Nick's bum playfully. "Do you want to change before we go eat? Shower?"

"I have stuff in my car," Nick says. "And…" He hopes to hell that this time, _this time_ , he's finally moved beyond blushing like a schoolboy. "Yes, sure. I'd love to shower."

James clears his throat and sidles backwards, then points with his thumb. "I'll, er, jump in first then, while you run and grab your clothes?"

By the time Nick has gone out to his car, grabbed his bag, and come back in, James is already out of the shower. He catches a whiff of soap in the damp air from the hallway and swallows—there is no way on earth he can avoid the mental images of James naked and dripping wet, of the tiny hints of more salacious behaviour that he might engage in at other times, the—

"Your turn," James interrupts, strolling down the hallway in his jeans and a worn t-shirt advertising a hip-hop festival from 1983. His hair is dark with moisture, and combed back from his face. Nick's fingers curl into his palms.

_Nnngh._

Nick controls himself, showers, and when he comes out he finds James tipped back in a kitchen chair, reading the paper. "Anything good?" he says as he tucks his damp running clothes into his bag.

"Not…really…" James drawls out, distracted, and he settles all four feet onto the linoleum again.

Nick tilts his head and strolls across the room to peer over his shoulder. "What's wrong?"

James makes a tiny growling noise in his throat. It shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes."

"Who?"

"Just…someone I knew."

Nick has been scanning the paper, and spies the article James had found. There's a small photo of a man with alien eyes and dark, wild hair, looking at the camera with vicious intensity. "Hunh,” Nick snickers. “I'd do him."

In a flurry of newsprint James closes the paper and pushes his chair back, heedless of how it makes Nick have to jump out of the way. "Let's go eat."

“Okaaay.” Nick slings his bag over his shoulder. “Remember, you're buying me _all the breakfast_ ," he says.


	5. Fission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
>  
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think of this as a serialised romance novel, set in the Lewis universe. Each new chapter will drop every other day until the 25th, at which point there will be a one-off Christmas special. Feel free to enjoy it piecemeal, or glut on it all at once. Enjoy.
> 
> Today's beta!thanks go to…Mazarin221b. She is the champion, my friends. She'll keep on writing 'til the end…

In the end, Nick would never have guessed that the thing that would finally break whatever wall that held James back would be unplanned, without thought, and completely ridiculous.

They meet up at Nick's later that week, and as they walk out the door James actually rests his hand lightly at the base of Nick's spine. He leaves it there for a few minutes as they stroll down the shining pavement, before pulling away to stop and light up a cigarette.

"You're not wearing your glasses."

Nick snorts. "And _that's_ why you're the detective."

"Shut up." James is smirking.

"I don't wear them _all_ the time."

"Yes, I figured you took them off when you showered."

"And when I do some other things," Nick smirks darkly right back at him.

James looks down at his feet with a little smile on his face, takes a massive drag, and they walk. He blows out a lungful of smoke and speaks up again after a few paces. "So how far is this restaurant?"

"Only a few blocks. Not even worth bothering to drive, clearly."

"Clearly."

"I hope you like it. The portion size isn't exactly American, but it's also not the farcical three-greens-and-a-carrot to a plate thing you so disdain.”

"What sort of place is it?"

"I told you it was going to be a surprise."

"Yes, but we're on our way there now. Telling me a few blocks early isn’t going to completely ruin the experience."

Nick's lips press out into a moue. "It could…"

James just looks flatly at him. And Nick can't keep a straight face. There is very little that feels straight about him tonight, as it turns out; James is driving him a bit out of square. He looks through the wreath of cigarette smoke at the lowered lids on those bedroom eyes, even lower now that he's being looked at with plain, unconcealed disbelief. The grin breaks sideways across Nick's face. "It's a gastropub, you mook."

James grins at him in return, and chuckles down toward the pavement. He lets a lamppost pass between them, and ten feet behind them, before he speaks again. "You could have just said."

"I wanted to keep you on tenterhooks."

"Of course you did."

"Were you worried?"

"That you were going to feed me…a dollop of parsnip mash and some celery?"

Nick nods.

"No." James peers at him and distractedly flicks away his cigarette end. “You’ve already proven otherwise. And you're too pragmatic for that."

“Am I.” This pronouncement pleases Nick. “What makes you say that, specifically?”

James thinks about this as they walk. “You usually wear your glasses. But you knew we were going to be walking, and it was drizzling earlier this evening. So you put in your contacts because it's difficult to see with glasses in the rain."

"I could just have been scrubbing up for you."

"It's a gastropub, Nicholas. If I'm ordering a pint, chances are it's not a place that warrants 'scrubbing up.'"

Nick smirks at him, happy and entertained. "So therefore I'm pragmatic."

James gives him a quick nod, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Not that I've known a great number of chefs, but I wouldn't have figured it was a trait common to them. Don't you have to be a bit fanciful, inventing all those dishes?"

Nick grins and navigates around a wheelie bin. "Before I was a chef, I was an architect."

James looks over at him and blinks.

"Surpriiise," Nick sings.

"An architect."

"Bee sci. Practical _and_ fanciful."

"I never would have pegged you for an architect."

Nick snorts. "There's a reason why I left, dear."

"Why?"

Nick gestures to the pub a few doors down, as if it isn't perfectly obvious from the lone smoker out front and the chalkboard announcing specials to passersby. "A number of reasons. I didn't get on supremely well with a lot of my peers, and that was tough when there was a lot more, er, _schmoozing_ than you would expect."

"Schmoozing?"

“What? It's a word." Nick pushes through the door and holds it open for James, studying his face intently for signs of surprise; he knows he, at least, had been expecting something quite different when he first came here.

There's barely a break in James's step as he enters. The blue wash of light picks up the angles of his face as he looks around, intrigued. "It…looks a bit like an Apple Store in here."

Nick follows him in, looking at the brushed stainless-steel tabletops and small touch-screen displays at every table. "I could see that." There's a burst of raucous laughter from the corner. "Of course, it's usually full of too many unappreciative students for my liking, but I suppose that _is_ my lot in life." James chuckles at him. "I do live in Oxford."

"This can't have been here that long," James says as they slide into a booth near the giant front windows.

"Oh, no longer than…well, maybe half a year? Not quite a year? I'm not entirely sure."

"Do you come here often?" James asks. Nick presses his lips together tightly to hold in his giggles, but at that moment James looks up from where his hands are clasped on the tabletop, and a bursts into abashed laughter at Nick's expression. "Yeah, okay…"

The dam breaks and Nick cracks up, and they sit there snickering for a while, purposefully not looking each other in the eye. When the giggles clear, they're grinning at each other.

"You're such a child," James says, and one more giggle escapes Nick. He tilts his head to the touchscreen at their side.

"Drinks?" He prods at the screen.

"Wait, let me do it," James says eagerly and, smiling, Nick leans back to let him take over.

"I'll have a Franziskaner."

James is scrolling through the choices. "I don't see— Is that on tap?"

Nick makes a rude noise. "Hefeweizen. On tap. No, bottle. And there should be a 'no garnish' option box. I don't want a lemon ruining it."

James stops poking at the screen and looks at Nick, bemused. "Picky."

"Have you _tried_ a good hefeweizen?"

James pulls a face. "Too light."

"It's not a pale, puny lager, James." He chuckles when James huffs. "You're probably just going to order best, aren't you."

"…No…"

"What _are_ you getting?"

"You'll see."

Their drinks come, and Nick pretends not to see James slip the waitress his credit card. He isn't sure why—they _had_ decided that this was James's turn, after all, and the way this pub works the night isn’t likely to devolve into rounds—but he does it, and if it makes James believe he isn't very observant, well, that's all to the good for the moment. Perhaps James will let his guard down and let something slip through.

Nick does through the ritual of pouring his own hefeweizen, watching James sip at his own beer and survey the crowd. "Tripel, hm?"

James looks amused. "What?"

"Planning on getting pissed?"

"No." He stifles a smile. "Just relaxing."

"Should I have a dubbel next?"

"If you like."

Nick flashes a quick grin. "I think I will, thanks."

James clears his throat. "You didn't finish telling me about that whole…architect…thing."

"Architect _thing_?" Nick raises an eyebrow, amused.

"Yes." James is refusing to be cowed, and his eyes gleam over the rim of his glass. But maybe that's just the blue light reflecting off the table.

"I left. One year into my work experience."

"Schmoozing."

Nick quirks a wry smile. "And in theory the work was a lot of fun, but in practise it…didn't suit me so well. I need something with more…variety. Day to day."

"You're a _librarian_."

"And you think each day is exactly the same in an Oxford library?" Nick thumbs at the students around them. "Look at this lot. I'm never bored."

"No, I don't suppose you would be."

There is silence for a while as they drink their beers. It's…nice. "Food?" Nick eventually suggests.

James nods. "Yes please."

"Do you want to do the suggested pairings, or stick with what we've got?" Nick leans over to the screen.

"Pairings."

"Great," Nick says, smiling at James's intrigued expression. He gets to the screen with the starters, and they begin planning out their meal. When it comes, the waitress serves them pints of beer specially selected to compliment their meals. 

James smiles. "Nice."

And Nick smiles back.

...

Nick waves around a prawn as he tells the story.

"…And that was my Doctor Manhattan moment."

James stares at him for a few beats. "By which I don't believe you mean you were 100 ft tall, naked, and blue."

Nick raises his eyebrows and nods slowly.

"Liar."

"Truth."

"You went to a fancy dress party as Doctor Manhattan?"

"Kali, actually." James nearly spits out his chicken with a laugh, and he sets down his fork and knife. "There was a fairly severe wardrobe malfunction."

"There would have to have been," James laughs. "You weren't 100ft tall, though."

"What makes you say that?" Nick says, his dark eyes wide and guileless.

"Arse."

"No, not the arse. I hadn't bothered painting my arse. It was just bare flesh. I'm told I looked like Doctor Manhattan with a condition."

"Doctor Manhattan _had_ a condition."

Nick snorts scornfully. "Doctor Manhattan was disintegrated by radioactive poisoning, you twat."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Nick snorts again. "No."

"Well. Regardless, the condition I was referring to was his regrettable lack of humour. Something for which you would be perfectly suited, if you ever decide to dress as him again."

Nick laughs and flicks a pea at James's plate. James jumps, then flicks the pea right back, and it bounces off his collar and lands in his drink. They snicker madly, looking around to make sure no one has seen. "We're in _public_ , Nicholas. This is a perfectly respectable restaurant."

"We're surrounded by _students_ ," Nick grins merrily at him, eyes shining, as he plucks the pea from his beer. When James chastises him with his full name, he can’t help but enjoy it.

James is clearly trying to look cross, fighting down his smile, but Nick can tell by his eyes it's a losing battle. "Juvenile."

"It's no use trying to give me that 'I'm a grumpy bugger with a stick up my arse' routine. It's too late."

"Damn," James says, with no real heat, then adds drily, "However will I bring you under my spell now?"

Nick grins at him. "You never know. It might be too late for that, too." And he flicks another pea.

…

They aren't pissed, really. Nick is just slightly warm, happy as they wander down the pavement from the pub towards his flat—happy in spite of the fact that he's heading for yet another subtle rejection from the man who is walking at his side and kicking a stone down the road ten feet at a time. It's okay. James makes a _fantastic_ date, snogging aside. He can wait it out.

James is humming something classical and familiar, and for the last two minutes Nick has been trying to suss out how to ask what the song is without seeming like a complete idiot. Up ahead, his neighbour's elderly cat is once again attempting to drag her aged bones over the wall and into the garden, so Nick dodges ahead to help her. "Plato," he sings, finding himself automatically slipping into the cadence of James's song, "Plaaatooo, they should have named you Sock-ratesss…" He gently sets the cat over the wall with a skritch between its ears. "You have four white feet and a lackkk of fleas…" Nick starts to walk back toward James, trying to come up with the next line of the song. "When shopping don't forget the froooozen peas…At Asda Su-per-store—" He stops. James is staring at him. "What? You don't like my song?"

For a few moments, James just continues to stare at him. Then all of a sudden, he lets out a rush of air like he's been kicked in the chest.

"What?"

And James is walking towards him, rapidly, as if he can't delay another—

 _Oh_.

Nick tilts his face up eagerly as James comes in for the kiss. Unfortunately, in their haste they get the angles completely wrong and most of that kinetic energy dissipates right into their noses as they smack together in a last-minute adjustment. They ricochet apart, hands over faces and hissing with pain.

"Owb," Nick says nasally, rubbing at the bone. "Are you okay?" He can already feel the blush creeping down his neck. _Well that’s typical._ James doesn't answer, though, he simply steps back in and guides Nick to the nearest streetlamp. Without a word, he pulls Nick's hand away from his face and starts inspecting his nose for—Nick doesn't really know what. But before he can ask, James gently takes his face in both hands and bends his head down to brush his lips over the aching bridge of Nick's nose. _Ohh_. He lays a soft kiss on the cartilage, two more nearer his forehead, and then James is kissing him, slowly, intently, drinking him in, Nick's face caught between his palms as if caging him in and forbidding him to leave.

Technically, it isn't a first kiss. But it _feels_ like one, somehow, the way the sensations nearly bring Nick to his knees. 

Although, really, none of Nick's first kisses had ever felt exactly like this. A few had, like this one, been tremulous, highlighted by flickering eyelashes and shaking breath. A few had also been intensified by dragged-out attraction that caused every cell in his body to wake up and take notice. An embarrassing number had also tasted of ale. But no other first kiss of his recollection had had this kind of slow passion, rolling waves of intensity stoked higher and higher by one press of lips after another, by hands twined in his shirt, by desire and relief and affection melting down his spine. Nick fists his hands in James's hair and holds on for dearest life. _Oh. Oh my god_.

It feels like they are pressing into each other, slowly, over and over, pulses of emotion and lust and oh god why are they doing this in a public place. It is by far the most intimate kiss he's ever experienced with his clothes still on.

Nick moans quietly and James breaks the kiss but doesn't move away, and for almost half a minute they just pant into each other's mouths while Nick slides his nose along James's and reels with the feeling of it all. James’s breath is shaky on Nick’s face. "Christ, James," he breathes, and his sigh catches and stutters when James's thigh shifts between his legs. He grasps desperately for two handfuls of James's arse and lets out the quietest groan he can manage when his hips kick forward for more friction. "Please tell me you're coming inside." It isn't until James is chuckling that Nick realises what he's said, and his face burns. "You know what I meant." He joins in chuckling, and then it dawns on him that James isn't pulling away. He feels like he could glow with happiness.

"I do." James gives him a soft, lingering kiss. Nick is perfectly aware he's about to be turned down again, but—it feels good anyway. Warm and comforting, and not at all like the awkward moments whenever they'd been so close the previous few weeks. Nick is struck suddenly by how very much he _likes_ James. "But I have to be at work quite early in the morning, and Laura gets ridiculously cross when we're late. You do not want Laura cross. It's not unlike your favourite sarcastic professor telling you she's very disappointed in you."

The words are light but the tone is…something else entirely. Quiet. Private. It’s a tone for people speaking across the pillow in the night, tangled up in bed. Nick looks up and his heart stutters to see the play of emotions shift on James’s face, vulnerability and want writ plain on his features. Nick takes James's head in his hands and kisses him, hard. Then kisses him again. And once more for good measure. He feels James's arms wrap around him, and he settles into the embrace. "You're fantastic," he breathes, and presses his face to James's collar.

"You're ridiculous," James says with a tender smile in his voice, and sings quietly into Nick's ear. "Don't forget the froooozen peasss…"

The flush renews on Nick's cheeks. "Oh shush. You like me," he teases.

"I do," James says quietly, and kisses his temple. "Very much."


	6. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
>  
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bottle of fermented and distilled thanks I owe to Mazarin221B, who puts me through my paces every chapter and I adore her for it.

`N: Help. My friends keep trying to embroil me in a fight about rugby.`

`J: Just tell them you like the All-Blacks, and maybe they will leave you alone.`

`N: Do you know anything about rugby?`

`J: I know about the All-Blacks.`

`N: What do you know about them?`

`J: They exist.`

`J: And they're from New Zealand.`

`N: You are the most helpful person I've ever known.`

`J: I know. That's what people keep telling me.`

`N: Ian says I'm useless and should have my librarian card rescinded. Because I don't know things about rugby.`

`J: You know where to look up stuff about rugby though, yes?`

`N: Of course I do.`

`J: Then respectfully, I'd tell Ian to shut it.`

`N: I'll tell him you said so.`

`J: Please do. Is this Ian of Ian and Mel?`

`N: Well-remembered.`

`J: You research things. I remember things.`

`N: We make a good pair, the two of us. I'm not a fan of rugby, but I'm a fan of us. :)`

`N: …James?`

`N: I'm sorry if that was too…much or something.`

`J: cnat talk. body. sorry`

 

Nick slumps back into his chair and lets out a heavy sigh.

“What did he say?” Mel asks eagerly. Ian swivels in his chair to pitch his burger wrapper in a smooth arc across the room and into the bin.

“Nothing. He…had to go work.” Nick swallows. Mel is distracted by giving Ian a fistbump for his effort. “I don’t know.”

“And why do you sound so dejected?”

“I think I said something stupid.”

“What?” Ian reaches to pluck Nick’s mobile from his hand but Mel deflects him with a full-handed shove to his face. Ian goes rolling back a few feet, giggling.

“Leave it, you arse,” she half-scolds, her round cheeks rounder with her grin. “Let him have his privacy.”

“But I want to know what he said!”

Mel kicks the underside of Ian’s chair, and he giggles again. Then she turns to Nick. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

Nick shrugs a shoulder. “I suppose. I just… You know me. And my habit of…” He gestures vague circles in the air. “This.”

“YES,” they both say in unison.

“I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.”

“ _Or_ you can just be truthful,” Mel says.

“I’m going to scare him off!”

“Okay,” Mel sighs. “What did you say?”

Nick reads them that part of the conversation, and Ian snorts. “That was cheesy as fuck.”

“Shut up,” Mel admonishes him with a backhanded slap to the chest, while over her shoulder Nick raises an eyebrow and aims at him a two-fingered salute. “It was fine. _You_ couldn’t deliver a line like that to save your life. But sort of works when it’s with him—the sincerity, and all that.”

“Are you saying I’m insincere?” Ian says with exaggerated indignation.

Mel rolls her eyes. “I watched you try and pull at any number of gay bars, if you’ll cast your enfeebled mind back to those oh-so-halcyon days of your singlehood.”

“That was sincere.”

“You _sincerely_ wanted to shag them in the gents.”

“…Yes.”

While they giggle, and Ian lifts up her hand to press a delighted kiss to her knuckles, Nick shoves the last of his burger further away from him and tilts dangerously back in the cheap conference room chair. He flips the phone over in his hand again and again. “I hate this.”

Ian looks up. “Being unsure of yourself with him?”

Nick nods.

“Hey, you know, here’s the deal. You like him. _He_ practically invited the comparison between you with that ‘you research and I remember’ thing. He’s obviously looking for ways in which you’re a good pair.”

Nick sighs. “Yeah, okay.”

“So shut up. You’re fine. You’re probably reading too much into it.”

“But…but…I _never_ do that,” Nick says, looking sideways at him with a twinkle in his eye.

Ian snickers. “No, never.”

There is quiet for a while as Mel chews and Ian starts unwrapping a second burger. Nick, however, is still rocking perilously in the chair and staring at his lunch cooling on the tabletop. “He probably _did_ have to work suddenly.”

“It makes sense,” Mel says. “It is his job.”

“I just…I’m not good at this stage.”

Ian chimes in. “The insecurity.”

And Nick nods.

“I know, sweetheart,” sighs Mel, and pats his shoulder.

“I have a feeling this guy is worth it,” Ian says.

Nick nods distractedly. “I hope so.”

* * *

There's a knock at the door.

Nick looks up from where he's curled in his armchair and furrows his brow, then sets his book on the side table to peer around the curtains in the front windows. It's James, standing on the front step with his hands behind his back, his chin in the air, and an inscrutable look on his face. Nick remembers their text conversation from the afternoon and feels butterflies roil through his gut. He takes a deep breath.

When Nick finally opens up the door to his visitor, James tosses his head up slightly, like a stubborn horse. "Let's get drunk."

Nick blinks. "…Okay."

He leads James into the house, mind whirring for the next thing to say. He doesn't know James quite well enough to be sure of it, but it seems likely _something_ has happened. He just…doesn't know how to ask, yet. Or even whether he should.

James seats himself, thankfully, and Nick opens up his liquor cabinet. "Er. What are we drinking?"

"Scotch?"

"Okay. You have choices, sir." Nick pulls out an Oban, a Laphroiag, and a Speyburn and plunks them on the coffee table. 

"Delightful." James reaches over with the barest minimum of movement and grabs the closest, the Speyburn. "Let's start with this."

…

Nick is sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, and James is across from him on the sofa, and the two fingers of scotch they’d started with are rapidly dwindling.

“ _Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high,  
Fill all the glasses there—for why  
Should every creature drink but I?  
Why, man of morals, tell me why?_"

James declaims to the room, then leans forward to clink his glass against Nick’s before they drink. James lounges back against the sofa. “Why did I hear _Life on Mars_ being played on the guitar when I came in?”

“Because that’s what I was listening to.”

James furrows his brow. “I didn’t recognise the singer. Or the language.” He’s clearly distressed about the fact, and Nick finds that kind of adorable, so he lets James hang for a few moments while Nick finishes his drink and pours himself some more.

“Portuguese.” He gestures an offer to refill James’s glass.

“Acoustic _Life on Mars_ in Portuguese.”

“There’s a whole album of it, if you ever want to listen.” Nick looks up, and is surprised by the expression on James’s face. "What? I like Bowie."

Now James just looks amused. “So it seems.”

“Don’t judge me.” Nick blows a silly noise at his glass.

There's silence for a few minutes. Then James speaks up. "We should listen to it."

"Now?"

"Why not?"

Nick can't think of a reason. He rolls around to his feet and goes to put it on the computer.

...

" _Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky  
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,  
'Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup  
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry_,'" Nick stumblingly quotes, after a few minutes of thought. 

James clinks his glass and they drank.

"The Rubayyat," he says approvingly. "Well-remembered."

"I cheated," Nick says, and props himself up on his elbow. "We sometimes quoted that part at uni."

"When?"

"When we wanted to impress people. My friends did it to get girls. I, rather… did not." He smirks.

James smirks back. "No, I imagine not."

Nick waits until James is sipping before he says, "I got girls by stripping off. For money."

It's worth having to mop off the coffee table for the result, a massive spit-take, James blowing out a mist of scotch. He collapses into painful laughter and tries to glare at Nick. "You utter _twat_." He picks up Nick's hoodie from where it's slung over the arm of the sofa and scrubs his mouth with it.

Nick cracks up at his expression, that bizarre mix of forced anger and hilarity. "Sorry," he giggles. "Sorry."

"No you're not."

"I'm really not." Nick curls his knees to his chest and giggles harder.

"You never stripped off for money."

Nick snorts with laughter at the idea. "Are you kidding? Look at me!" He lifts up a pale, rather-average arm. James doesn't say anything, just looks with an inscrutable expression on his face. Nick carefully lets his arm fall and looks back, and swallows. "I've never exactly been a strapping young Adonis, I'm saying."

The silence is strangely serious in contrast to the humour of only moments ago. James gives Nick another quick glance, then takes a drink. "Have you ever? Been interested in getting a girl." He stares at his toes.

Nick shakes his head. "I fancied one or two, just a bit, but they were both mostly intellectual interests. I'm not sure I'd know what to do if I actually had a girl in bed, and…" He pulls a face. "I'm pretty sure I'd dislike it."

"You identify as gay, then."

"Since I learned what it was, yep," Nick nods, and hugs his knees. "I've known I've preferred men my entire life." He rubs his lower lip back and forth across his jeans. "You?"

James takes a moment to answer. "That's…a complicated question."

"The whole _subject_ is complicated."

“It is,” James says. “It really is.”

...

" _Quick! we have but a second,  
Fill round the cup, while you may;  
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,  
And we must away, away!_”

"And what about the next part?" asks Nick as they clink glasses yet again.

"I don't know it," says James to his scotch.

Nick clears his throat and says, singsong, " _Grasp the pleasure that's flying,  
For oh! not Orpheus' strain  
Could keep sweet hours from dying,  
Or charm them to life again_."

James narrows his eyes and looks at Nick sidelong. “Are you trying to tell me something, Driscoll?”

“A bit of counsel. Life is short. Enjoy yourself."

"Next thing I know you'll be quoting me ABBA songs."

Nick looks at James quizzically. "ABBA?"

"Take a chance on me," James pronounces with his most haughty RP. 

Nick suddenly expects him to sip from his scotch with a pinkie finger daintily lifted into the air, and he gaffaws both at the words and the image. He starts to prepare a rebuttal, but James pushes his lips into a moue and interrupts. "It's not a ridiculous assumption. You're _always_ on at me about it."

"Because it's true."

"You think I don't know about life passing?"

"I think you're _painfully_ aware of life passing."

James stares at him. Nick wonders how the conversation got here. It's all starting to blur round the edges. It all feels strangely prickly. Which is a shame, because up until recently things had been going so well.

"And then what?" James asks.

"And then what _what_?"

"If that's so, why the constant reminders of life's fleeting-fucking-nature?"

"I think it terrifies you. You see it literally _having passed_ all the time, and your entire life is one long jog from painful benchmark to painful benchmark—"

James stands up suddenly and puts down his drink with a forceful clack of glass against wood. "I'm going out to smoke."

"James." _He won't talk about any of this shit, but he won't be drawn into fighting about it either_. Nick doesn't know whether to envy James's self-control or to seriously, violently loathe it. "Not every interaction with another human is a set-up for you to be knocked down."

James goes out to the back garden.

Nick drinks a bit more of his scotch. Then he follows him outside.

The night air is more than a little glorious on his cheeks, which are alcohol-warm and still a bit flushed with frustration. Nick doesn't say anything, just leans against the back of the house next to James and plucks the fag from his hand.

"Ziggy Stardust was the first album I bought with my own money when I finally moved out," he says, pointedly ignoring the surprise on James's face when he takes a drag and hands it back. His toes nearly curl at the comforting familiarity of the motion, the burn, the flavour. Cigarette smoke isn't the same once it dissipates, when it's merely kissed from someone else's mouth.

"I don't want you to start up again," James says quietly.

Nick shakes his head, discounting it, then continues. "I wasn't allowed to have the album when I was younger, and I wasn't really the type to sneak it in. Always felt guilty about everything. Didn't think I'd be able to manage it. But—" He makes a lustful grunt. "I _wanted_ that album. Glam and boys in heels and sex. I could only imagine it. It made my heart hurt." He steals James’s cigarette again for another drag, then he gives it back. "And then I got it, and I think I listened to it on repeat for a month, shut up in my horrible bedroom away from my horrible flatmates." He sings quietly in passing imitation of Bowie. " _All the knives seem to lacerate your brain. I've had my share, so I'll help you with the pain. You're not_ —"

And the word "alone" is swallowed up into James's mouth as he kisses Nick suddenly, attacking him with lips and tongue, caging Nick's face with dry hands that smell of burnt tobacco and pressing Nick's body against the house with his own. Nick lets out a surprised groan but goes with it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss and grabbing fistfuls of James's shirt. It occurs to him vaguely that James thinks he's sidetracking him with the temptation of sex, but there's no harm in riding along with the illusion for the few minutes of a sloppy snog, is there? Nick can dissuade James of that misapprehension when he's stolen a small measure of sexual satisfaction.

And the alcohol in his system is starting to play tricks with his senses, so the kiss is… _mmm_ , it feels unusually good. Trapped against the brick with James's body, everything a little muted and foggy around the edges, he's getting hard just standing there, the slick, sensitive skin of their mouths brushing softly, the wet sounds sparking arousal down to his toes. Nick feels like he could just drown in it.

They shift weight slightly, and it becomes obvious Nick isn't the only one getting a little bit swept away by the alcohol and the kiss and the crisp night air. James fists his hands in Nick's hair and dives in with a rather desperate enthusiasm, erection plain against Nick's hip. He tightens his grip on the hair in his fists, and Nick groans loudly with pleasure. Suddenly, James startles back as if someone has splashed him with ice water.

They stand two feet apart, panting, and Nick stares blearily down at the fag end still glowing away where James had flung it to the dirt in haste.

"Erm." James leans back against the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets, curling in on himself.

Nick is trying to master himself, trying to remember that he's meant to be following James's lead, and that mauling him in the back garden when he's pulled away probably does not fall under the category of "following James's lead". It's tough though, when Nick's blood is still racing through his veins, and he can still taste James on his tongue. The pull of want is heavy.

He scrubs his hand through his hair and blows out a breath. "Do you want another cigarette, or do you just want to go back inside?"

"I…don't know."

"Have another cigarette."

James peers at him slantwise. "No one ever suggests that I smoke _more_ cigarettes."

"I just did."

"Why?"

"I think you need one."

James looks at him suspiciously, but pulls out the pack and offers one to Nick, who shakes his head. "Are you just going to steal drags off mine?"

"You bet," Nick says with a wry smirk, and leans against the back of the house next to James to filch puffs from the cigarette and breathe his way back to equilibrium.

...

“ _And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,  
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—  
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what  
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less._”

"You're the cheery one, I can tell," James says drily, and they clink glasses.

"You haven't figured that out yet?"

"I've had my suspicions."

"This cheery visage can hide all manner of sins."

"Such as?"

"You'll just have to find out. I'm a present best savoured slowly."

"Do I have to unwrap you first?"

Nick blinks, and swings his head sideways to stare at him in shock. _Is that innuendo? From James Hathaway_? He opens his mouth to say so, but decides that surprise will likely be misconstrued, and he'd prefer _more_ innuendo from the man, rather than _less_. So instead he just raises an eyebrow and smirks seductively. "I would not say such things if I were you."

"Afraid I'll follow through?"

Nick nearly snorts. "Afraid? No." His stomach swoops and drops to his feet as James catches his eye, and they stare for a few minutes before James lifts his glass to his face and drinks. _Jesus._ Nick takes a sizeable gulp himself.

…

Nick is starting to slump in his armchair, while James is stretched full-out on his sofa and digging his stockinged feet into its plush arm. He rolls sideways and blinks slowly at Nick.

"Do you play chess?"

"Nope." Nick pops the 'p'.

"Why not?"

"Don't like it." Nick takes a generous sip.

"Why not?"

"You asked me that already."

"You didn't answer."

"I don't really _know_ the answer."

"You should."

"Too bad."

"Do you like card games?"

"Nope."

"Do you like _anything_?"

 _You,_ Nick thinks, but has just enough restraint left to bite it back. "Scrabble."

"That's specific."

"You asked."

"Remind me never to play you at Scrabble."

Nick giggles, tucking his chin into his chest. "Why not?"

"You answered too quickly. You're probably really sssstonking good." James rolls onto his back again.

"I am," Nick giggles some more.

"I've changed my mind. We should play."

"When?"

"When I'm sober."

"When's that going to be?"

"Never again."

Nick peers narrowly at him, and tries to push himself upright. "Never again."

"I plan on remaining drunk for the rest of my life."

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened at work?”

"I'm busy drinking."

"Thank you, Mister Helpful."

"You. Are. Welcome." James sits up just enough for a swallow of his scotch.

...

Eventually Nick gets up to take a piss. On his way back, James calls out, "What did you cook for supper tonight?"

Nick swings by the kitchen and nabs two crisp packets on his way out. "Stir fry."

"Are there leftovers?"

With an underhand lob, Nick tosses a packet at James, and it lands neatly on James's chest. "Nope. Sorry." The throw has left him just slightly off-balance, and he lists into the doorframe on the way through. "Ow. Fucker." He rubs the bruise out of his shoulder.

"Damn," James grumbles, but he opens up the crisps anyway.

"Tragedy, yes. I'll make it up to you when I'm in a better state to handle a cutting tool."

"You'll owe me."

"Gladly." Nick throws himself down into his chair again and rips open his packet.

James tilts his head back and over. "What did you get?"

"Monster Munch. Pickled Onion. What did I get you?"

"Cheese and Onion."

"Trade?"

"…Yes. Halfway through, though.”

"'Kay."

There is the sound of chewing and crinkling foil for a few moments.

"This taste combination is foul." James pulls a face.

“With the scotch?”

“Yeah.”

"Scotch and onion anything is going to be pretty bad, I expect."

"You're probably right."

They both eat another handful in silence. 

"…Trade now?"

"…Okay."

...

The hastily-curated playlist Nick had been setting up has been abandoned, so _Gogol Bordello_ are singing yet again for someone to “drop the charges” as both men are spread out on the floor in various stages of dishevelled glory. James's tie and belt, his keys and wallet and phone are all on a pile in the centre of the coffee table. His shoes are over near the wall, under the window. Nick is sprawled out, his feet wedged underneath his armchair, and he writhes with extreme pleasure when James groans.

"Ohhhhh, Adze?! You _arsehole_!” James moans. Nick tips his head back and laughs at him, then grabs a victory slice of pizza from the box. James sinks sideways and props his chin in his hand. "I've got all vowels. I'm not fucking _Welsh_."

"Welsh is ‘y’s and ‘w’s, and it isn't legal anyway."

"Smug bastard."

"Buy a dictionary."

"I am going to pummel you."

"No you're not."

James snickers, and he puts his head down onto his arms and giggles. "I'm really not."

"You're too drunk."

"I am _so_ drunk."

"Want some more pizza?" Nick laboriously pushes himself to his feet and gathers up the box.

James groans. "I will be sick on your floor."

"You'd better not," Nick says, and trundles into the kitchen. "Or you'll be cleaning it up." He pushes around some things in the fridge and wedges the box in a bit sideways. There's another groan from the lounge. "What's wrong?" Nick calls out.

"We finished the bottle," James says, morose.

"There's more."

"I don't think I should have more."

"Then don't."

"I won't."

"Oh- _kaaay_ ," Nick sings, then fills two glasses with water and unsteadily makes his way back to their game. He sets them gingerly on the coffee table behind James and picks his way around him to fold back into his spot.

"Did you cheat and look?”

"Don't need to," Nick smirks.

James groans. "You're an arse."

"Could be, could be."

"I drank more than you." James peers at him accusingly.

"Lies. We drank exactly the same amount."

"Then why are you winning? I'm smarter than you."

With a snicker, Nick rearranges his letters. “ _Frisson_ , remember? Not English.”

“Oh right.” James rests his head on his arm again and reaches out to snag his glass, which apparently he’d refilled while Nick was in the kitchen.

Nick stares at the bit of skin behind his ear, near his hairline. It’s a bit pink. As his his face, which brings into relief the scar on his chin. Nick wonders what it tastes like. “What’s it taste like?” he says.

“Hmm?” James pushes his head up to look at him.

_Bugger. That was aloud._

But James misunderstands, thanks be to God. Or something. “It’s good. It’s yours, you should know.” James holds out his glass so Nick can drink from it, so he does. It tastes almost unbearably of peat, especially after the brightness of the pizza. 

“The Laphroiag.”

“Yup,” James confirms, and himself takes a decent swig. “I’m going to owe you a lot of liquor after this.”

“Mrph,” Nick says noncommittally.

They both push around their tiles for a while. The heating kicks on, and the sound of the water in the pipes is incredibly loud down here on the floor. Nick’s eyelids start to droop. He can smell James’s sweat, worked up during a day of work and dried during an evening of drinking. James is thinking loudly, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the joint of the floorboards and staring at the spot from two inches away. The movement is a bit hypnotic.

"What's with the omphaloskepsis?"

James’s head pops up and he blinks wearily. "Hm?"

"The naval-gazing. The woolgathering. What are you thinking about?"

“Who says _omphaloskepsis_?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not thinking of anything.”

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

“What are the scars from?”

Nick stops and mentally reels. “What?”

“On your forearm.”

Nick looks down at the pale white hashmarks just below his left elbow as if they’d look any different now than they have the past twenty years. “I didn’t think they were that noticeable anymore.”

“I notice things.”

“Mmm. What were you thinking about before?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“ _You_ just did.”

“I’m allowed.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m a _guest_.” James lifts his head just long enough for a cheeky grin, then he lets it back down again.

“That’s not a rule.”

“Yes it is.”

Nick groans. “It’s not.” Then he sighs. “Fine. You actually want to hear about this?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not particularly flattering.”

“That makes it more compelling.”

“If I tell you, you _absolutely_ have to tell me about what happened today.”

James goes a bit still.

“Promise me,” Nick says.

After a few moments, James says, “Fine.”

“When I was fifteen, my parents divorced.”

“Catholicism—“

“Let me finish this. My parents split. I’d just come out. The congregation, the community was busy dividing itself on one side or the other over _everything_ , I lost a bunch of my friends, and everything turned to shit very, _very_ quickly. I started keeping this…box of razor blades under my mattress, and it…helped. A little bit. Focus me. I, er. Eventually I stopped, once I went to university, and found out that my home life was incredibly fucked up and none of it was my fault, but. This is…what’s left.” Nick crawls over to the coffee table to pour himself more to drink. It suddenly feels like _that_ sort of evening. The evening to get _blindingly_ pissed. “Aren’t you glad you asked?”

James rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. “Do you think man’s desire is engendered in a soul, or is solely the product of neurochemicals?”

“Neurochemicals.” Nick lets his head loll to the side to stare at him. “By this point, given a choice between a scientific explanation and a great big…judgemental arsehole who lives in the sky, I’m going to pick science. God has had twenty years to win back my allegiance and if he exists, has chosen to remain neutral on the matter.”

“Did your parents divorce because you were gay?”

If Nick were sober—or if James were someone else—he might be more surprised at the question. “It seemed like it at the time.”

"They don't sound very reassuring."

"They aren't."

"Do you still speak to them?"

"Do you still speak to yours?"

James rolls and gets unsteadily to his feet. "I need a cigarette."

"If you ever quit—"

"I'll no longer have an excuse to loiter outdoors and subtly chat up witnesses. Come on."

They lounge out the back, James leaning against the house again and Nick perched on the pot full of dirt and dead rosemary that makes the depressing focal point of his garden. 

“And lo,” James murmurs. “I am now become a tyrant.”

 _Huh?_ Nick’s brow furrows.

James casts a quick sidelong glance at him. “I have let my hunger rule my house. Drunkenness, lust, and passion have purged temperance. Madness shall become paramount, and drive everything into a frenzy of appetite.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Ahhh.” James tips his head back desultorily and blows a cloud of smoke into the air. “I’ve found something you don’t know.”

“What is it, James?” _This is tiresome_.

“Plato’s Republic. _De Republica_. The state of the tyrant, and the tyrant of the state.”

“Yeah, it _does_ seem likely that your knowledge of philosophy is going to trump mine, doesn’t it Father.”

James’s face clouds over at that, but it also seems like his brain is dragging him by the scruff of the neck because in the next moment it looks as if he’s forgotten it completely. “The drunken man has the spirit of a tyrant.”

“Some do, yeah.”

“ _Eros_ is my tyrant.”

Nick scrubs his hand over his face.

“Eros is my tyrant, I shall not want. …Or, really, I _shall_. That’s the whole point, isn’t it.”

Nick heaves a heavy sigh into his palm. “James, just—” He grabs at the air between them with his free hand. “Give me some of that cigarette.”

…

James shifts his cheek against Nick’s thigh, scratching it on the denim. Nick’s head is tilted back against the sofa cushions and he sighs heavily up at the ceiling. He lets his fingers wander of their own accord, and they stroke slowly up and down James’s back.

“The tyrant is taking over,” James says. He bends his legs at the knee and lets his shins fall back down to hit the arm of the sofa. It makes a dull thud.

“No it’s not.” Nick breathes. “You just think it is because you’re unaccustomed to it. Embracing your hedonism doesn’t mean you’re losing your whatever. Soul. Balance. Control. _Whatever_.”

“I don’t really know how to defend against it.”

“Losing it?”

James makes an affirmative noise and rubs his face against the rough-textured seam and the smooth, soft, worn patch at the top of Nick’s thigh.

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I won’t be able to stop.”

“Would that be dangerous?”

“Of course it would.”

“You need control that much?”

James rolls to his side and looks up at Nick’s face. “ _You_ do.”

Nick snorts. “Not to that extent.”

“Well I’m not going to _cut myself_ if things are out of my control, if that’s what you’re worried about,” James says.

Nick blearily lifts up his head to look down at him. “Don’t be a twat.” Then he lets his head fall back again.

For a few moments, James interlaces his fingers with Nick’s and rubs his lower lip absently along their knuckles.

“I want you.”

“I know,” Nick says quietly. 

James doesn’t get up. “Very much.”

“I know.” _This is miserable_.

They’re quiet for a few minutes, both lost in thought. It vaguely occurs to Nick he should refill their glasses of water, but James is on his lap, almost cuddling, and there is no way in hell Nick is going to spoil that. He’d rather the hangover. James rolls back onto his stomach and Nick resumes rubbing his back slowly, trying not to ruck up his shirt too badly.

“There was a husband,” James murmurs. Then he swallows. “He and his wife had been married for twelve years. They had a seven-year-old daughter. Last night, around 3am, he woke, got out of bed, stabbed his daughter to death, stabbed his wife to death in their own bed, and slit his own wrists.”

Nick cannot breathe. He cannot move. The slight spinning in his head stops, and even his neurons feel frozen in place.

“He was tired, the note said.” James swallows. “Just tired.”

With a shuddery exhale, Nick blinks. “Oh god.”

“They trusted him,” James breathes. “And he slaughtered them. Because he was…tired.”

Nick starts rubbing James’s back again. “I’m so sorry, James.” It’s the only thing that he can think of to say, so he tries to be as comforting as possible.

With a start, James pushes up and off Nick’s leg and huddles on the far corner of the sofa. His head lolls against the back. “They trusted him. They lived together. They were his family. There was little indication what he planned to do.”

“You think he planned it?”

“He had the note all finished. Had printed it on his work computer yesterday.”

“Oh god,” Nick whispers.

James lets out a shaky sigh. “Her boss found them. This afternoon. The wife was meant to be working from home, but hadn’t rung in or answered any emails.”

“I can’t imagine finding someone like that.” Nick feels the passage of time, heavy seconds ticking by as James’s brain whirrs and Nick’s stumbles round corners after it. “You probably find bodies often, don’t you.”

“Not as often as you’d think.” James is staring into the middle distance. “But more than I’d like. It’s…not…” He scrubs his palms over his face and blows out a breath. “It’s not, by far, the part of my job I like.”

Nick picks at the frayed seam of his sofa. “I’ve only seen one dead body. And that was my father. All cleaned up and waxy.”

James forces a dry laugh. “That’s not how I find them.”

“No, I know,” Nick says. “I’m just saying. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“They thought he loved them,” James says. His voice is dark. “They loved him, and thought he loved them back. He might even have _actually_ loved them in return—love doesn’t preclude killing someone. Or so it seems.” He swallows, and Nick stares at him, eyes wide with horror. “Love is the drive for good and evil. He didn’t want them to go on without them, but didn’t want to go on himself. Or to leave it be. Or to leave them. He had options, and he decided the best one was three deaths. Love is good. Murder is evil. One drives the other. One is…” James rolls his head on the sofa back again. “I’m so tired,” he whispers.

“Why don’t you rest?” Nick asks.

“I need to go,” James says, and arduously pushes to his feet and sways a little.

“What.”

“I want to go home.” James looks around and stops, and blinks heavily.

“You’re not driving.”

“Yeah,” James says wearily. “I know.” But he doesn’t sit back down.

“You want a cab?”

“I want to sleep.”

Nick manages to get to his feet and walk over. He suddenly feels ten times as drunk as he was only half an hour ago. “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“No.” James shakes his head, and then groans at the movement. “No. No. I can’t.”

“On the _sofa_ ,” Nick says. He screws up his eyes and frowns at the stab of heartache. “You’re staying. On the sofa.”

“Maybe I should phone for a c—“ James starts fidgeting, swaying.

“James.” Nick lifts his hand to touch him but catches himself at the last moment. He’s never seen James this agitated. “I know you see a lot of death. And evil. And sadness. But that's not all that's out there. It's perfectly safe to risk a night on a…friend's sofa. It's okay. You'll be fine out here. People do this all the time, and not a hair on their heads is harmed. I promise you. Trust me. Please.”

“I don’t…”

“I have clean sheets and a pillow. Set your alarm on your phone. Do you have to work in the morning? You never said.”

“I should… I should go. Need to…do things. At work. In the morning.”

“You still can.” Nick turns and runs his hand along the wall as he goes into the hallway and pulls out a pile of linens from the cupboard. For some reason—probably the alcohol—the slight texture of the paint on the wall is pleasant under his fingertips, bumpy and slick and cool. When he gets back to the lounge James is still just standing there. “Here,” Nick says and clumsily spreads a sheet over the sofa. “Here. Bed.” He’s stabbed in the gut with a sudden, _desperate_ wish that James were just coming to bed with him instead. It would feel fucking amazing, stripping off James’s shirt, lying next to him in bed, all comforting warmth and skin and—

“I can do it,” James says and takes over making up the sofa. Nick stands back and dazedly watches him. They're both obviously drunk, but it looks like of the two of them James's coordination is far better. By the time Nick has topped up their glasses of water James is done, and he melts onto the sofa with a massive sigh. Nick is standing to the side, arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

"What time do you have to be up?"

"Seven," James rumbles from behind his arm.

"If you get up by half-six, I'll make you breakfast."

James makes an indeterminate noise.

"Okay. Erm. Well. Goodnight," Nick says, lingering at the arched entrance to the hallway.

James lifts his arm up and lets it flop down, a silent response that sinks Nick's stomach. He plods down the hallway, forcibly focusing his mind on breakfast, thinking about coffee and yogurt—or maybe greasy eggs, if they're feel a bit hungover—and morning conversation and James's sleepy smile.

…

But come quarter-past-six, Nick is greeted with an empty sofa, a stack of neatly folded sheets, and a note.

_Sorry, had to run, didn't want to wake you. Early morning at work. Thanks for last night,  
James_

Nick slumps onto the sofa, disappointment thick in his throat. He sighs. Once step forward and two steps back, and here he is again, feeling strangely lonely and wondering what—if anything, really—he's done wrong.

* * *

`N: Hey, just checking in. How are you feeling today?`

`J: I'm okay. You?`

`N: Surprisingly well. Hot shower and some paracetamol. A lot of water. Toast. I'm good.`

`J: Glad to hear it. I want to apologise for leaving so early.`

`N: That's okay. I understand about working odd hours.`

`J: Thanks. I appreciate it.`

`N: Of course. I'm not gonna take issue with something I've been through myself.`

`J: Thanks.`

 

Nick slips his mobile back into his pocket as he sees Ian crossing the reference section. He nods at him. "Hey."

"Morning, sunshine. You look like shit."

Nick snorts. "Thanks."

"What were you up to last night? Hijinx with your man?"

"We got completely pissed," Nick grimaces.

Ian cracks up. "That seems like it was an excellent plan."

“Yeeaah I've felt better."

"No doubt."

Nick swallows and looks down at his desk for a few quiet moments.

Ian furrows his brow. "You're sure you're all right?"

"No, yeah, I'm fine." Nick snaps into motion, waving away Ian's concern.

"You don't want to talk about it," Ian says, peering at him with a small smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

"Not particularly, no," Nick admits wryly.

The smile settles more firmly onto Ian's face. "Well, you're welcome to your privacy."

Nick's eyebrows raise in amusement. "Oh yeah? Really? You think so?"

"Oh shut up," Ian laughs.

Nick chuckles along with him.

"Have you talked to him yet today?"

"A little bit," Nick says, and swallows.

"Is he in the same shape you are?"

"I…don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"Oh I did," Nick says. "He just said he was fine. He didn't give any details. He’s not overly…share-y.”

"Well, maybe you should ask him for some. Go on. Text him right now."

Nick blushes and looks around. "While you're here?"

"Why not?" Ian smirks. “You texted him while we were there the other day.”

Nick shoots Ian a wry look and pulls his phone out of his pocket. "What am I meant to say?"

"No wonder you've been single so long," Ian chides. "You're rubbish at this unless one of us is there to help you out."

"Oh fuck off," Nick whispers, looking around to make sure no patrons hear him. He starts typing. Ian tries to lean far enough over the desk to see the face of the phone but Nick hides it against his chest. "Seriously, _fuck off_." He's obviously trying not to smile.

"Fine, fine, I should get back anyway." Ian raises his eyebrows and tries on a sanctimonious expression.

"Go work. Get out of my space,” Nick says. He grins, and types while Ian strolls off, lazily waving goodbye.

`N: Did you catch any grief from your colleagues for drinking last night? Apparently I look like shit. :/`

`J: No one has said anything. But my stomach has been a bit angry with me all day.`

`N: I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to make you breakfast this morning. Have you eaten?`

`J: Lewis and I got coffee this morning, so I had a scone.`

`N: I’m thinking of making a gigantic salad tonight, to counteract the alcohol and the pizza last night. Are you interested?`

 

Almost an hour passes before Nick receives a response. The craving for nicotine makes him want to twitch.

 

`J: Yes.`

 

Nick breathes a sigh of relief.

 

`N: Great. It will be nice to see you when we’re not so inebriated. ;)`

`J: Perhaps I won’t bring wine, then.`

`N: No, we should have tea.`

`J: Not herbal.`

`N: Oh, come on. Something made of mucky plants and very healthful, that tastes like my ruined garden.`

`J: Then I’m bringing my own private supply of squash, and you shan’t have any.`

`N: Real people don’t say shan’t, James.`

`J: I am as real as they come, and I just did say it.`

`N: Oh, I know you’re real. I’ve felt you. ;)`

`J: Not as much as you’d have liked, though.`

`N: I never said that.`

`J: Anyway, I’ll be over what time? 7?`

`N: Great. :)`

`J: Okay, working now. Talk to you later.`

`N: Yes. Have fun.`


	7. Impatience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a change of pace, this chapter's thanks go to my beta Mazarin221b, who has all sorts of patience with me. Thanks.

Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company.

He's not husband-hunting, that's clear. But if he's honest with himself, he does feel a certain amount of longing for there to be _someone_ in his life. Some fantastic someone-to-watch-over-him, goodnight-my-someone, someone-he-has-to-let-in romantic co-star to hold his hand and go through life's shit with him. "Give him support for being alive" and all that. If it were two years earlier he would have run from the thought, but now… Now it's more than a little appealing.

So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life. Well…both.

But James seems to be _complicated_ , to speak in understatements for a moment. He runs hot then cold then hot again—or, at least, if not hot, _warm_ —and something massive is holding him back. All Nick really knows is that the kiss they shared knocked him for a loop, and the vivid memory of it has lulled him to sleep sated and sticky for several nights in a row, now.

The satiation is good, really. A blessing. Because thus far, whenever it comes to the moment to move beyond a kiss, James has managed to slip sideways out of Nick’s arms with the grace of a dancer.

Nick considers himself a patient man, but there are times when this natural patience is _seriously_ taxed. 

Like tonight.

He rings James and invites him over for supper on Friday night—he'll cook, thanks, and if James could just bring a nice Malbec?—and he hopes the fact that James knows he works on Saturday will be enough silent communication to indicate that no, that's fine, he won't be expected to stay over. The evening is going nicely. James enjoys the pasta, and they chat by candlelight, and the whole thing is ridiculously indulgent and sappy and romantic. It’s _lovely_.

Nick doesn’t want it to end. “Do you want to go watch a film?" he asks, propping his chin on his fist.

After a few drawn out moments, James nods slightly. He stretches all eleven feet and two inches of himself before wandering into the lounge ahead of his host. Nick grabs the rest of the wine and their glasses before following.

"What shall we watch?" he asks lightly, taking in the sight of James sitting on the sofa in pose which manages to convey "huddled" without technically being so. "You fancy something more like Bond, more like the Maltese Falcon, more like Hello, Dolly, or more like Tinker, Tailor? …Or more like Finding Nemo?" he adds at the last, with a bit of a smile.

"Tinker, Tailor."

"More like or exactly that."

"Exactly that."

"Are you trying to seduce me?" Nick jokes as he puts in the dvd. There's a weighty silence from the sofa as he searches for the right remote. He swallows, then sits, prodding the telly onto the right channel. "You know with this cast—"

His voice cuts off with a strangled noise as suddenly James has plastered himself to Nick's back and is pressing soft kisses to his neck.

" _Mmmmm_ ," Nick hums, his eyes fluttering closed. "Hello." It feels as if every nerve ending is pricked to attention. He suddenly is hit with a craving for James to dig his fingertips in where they're resting on Nick's hips, for him to hold and bruise and use. Nick strangles the groan before it reaches his mouth. He wants, desperately.

James steps around Nick's front to pull him into a luxurious kiss. Nick still hasn't gotten used to this from James, tacit desire, the permission to touch, and his heart races as they press together mouth to thigh, kissing for long minutes as the dvd menu music plays in the background, burying their fingers in each others' hair.

Then James steps back, pulling free of Nick's arms, and in one quick movement he's swept his shirt off over his head and has dropped to his knees at Nick's feet, sitting on his heels with head bowed and long neck presented to the room. His breath is coming fast, heavy, all out of proportion even to the vulnerability of the pose.

" _Please touch me_ ," he whispers, his voice shaking.

This time Nick can't help it, and the small noise trickles out from between his lips. _Oh. God. Yes._

He pushes his fingers into James's hair, and the man is still as a statue. He lets his fingertips trail over the curve of James's ear, down the side of his neck, and to his clavicle. James's breath speeds even more until he's nearly gasping, and then Nick realises James is digging the fingertips of both hands into his thighs so hard his knuckles are turning white. Nick stops immediately. "James."

James doesn't move.

"James, look at me." He still doesn't move.

"James." This time Nick tips his chin up physically, but James's eyes slide sideways and close. Fear pulses in Nick's stomach. "Hey." He caresses the backs of his fingers across James's forehead and sweeps them down his cheek. Then James opens his eyes and gazes at him, and though his expression is pleading the look in his eyes is heart-stopping terror. Nick is frozen for a moment, pinned. His chest clenches. "Oh _James_." He steps back.

"Please," James murmurs. Nick has no idea whether that means 'please stop' or 'please continue', and that's an _absolute_ dealbreaker.

"What are you doing?" Nick asks softly.

James's head drops back down and Nick can no longer see his face. The arch of his neck is beautiful in the diffused glow, and that's making this situation even more wrenching. "I want you to take me," James says, hoarse.

The breath huffs out of Nick's lungs. "I don't think you do," he whispers.

" _Please_."

This must be what going mad feels like. After a few moments, Nick swallows. "No."

The fingers on James's thighs twitch tighter for a moment. "Please."

Nick takes another step back and scrubs his hand over his face. He badly needs a drink. "God, James. Why are you doing this?"

There is silence.

Nick crosses the room to down the wine remaining in his glass and pours himself more. James is still sitting back on his heels in the centre of the room, head bent, trembling. Nick takes a sip of his wine and coughs to clear his throat. "You know what I think about constantly? Our first kiss. It was so intense I actually daydream about it. You made me wait, and it was completely worth it. Waiting for _you_ is completely worth it. That kiss was so intense—"

James shifts, inhales heavily, twitches.

Still, Nick presses on. He wants to get this _out_. "I mean, all of them have been amazing, and I just…I can't help thinking that… What makes you think that sex won't be as intense? Or maybe even ten times stronger? I'm just—This may be greed, here, but I want it to be good. We waited until you were ready to kiss me, and it was amazing. I want you to be ready for the intensity. Hell, _I_ want to be ready. I'm…okay, waiting—I don't know what's happened in the past, and I really, _really_ hope you'll tell me someday. But right now…" He scrubs his hand over his face again. "Why don't we just relax and watch the film?"

"I'm ready." James's voice is quiet.

Nick tries really hard not to scoff. "I'm not an idiot."

"And I'm not a child." James pushes to his feet. "You do want this—"

"James," Nick says softly. "Don't."

"I'm not some…fading-flower… _virgin_ who's going to swoon at the first touch of—"

"I never said you were."

"— _anything_ , and you've been waiting for me, and let's just—"

"James."

"—do this, okay? It's fine."

"James."

"Stop being so NICE TO ME."

Nick is taken aback. He stands there staring at James, who is pacing around the tiny space, his colour gone all wrong. "What."

"Stop it! Just— Fuck me. It's _okay_.”

"James you look ill. Just stop.” Something in Nick’s chest hurts like mad. “Please…"

"Stop CODDLING ME. I'm not wrapped in sodding _cotton wool_. I'm not going to— It's not going to… _hurt_ me—"

"For fuck's sake, James, just sit the hell down or something."

"I'm a fully-grown adult. I can handle myself—"

"I don't know what's—"

"—and I just want to _do_ this."

"—going on, but I don't want it to be like this."

Nick sighs. James is standing there bare-chested, shaking, eyes barely focusing on anything in the room. He's clearly not listening. He seems barely himself right now. It looks like he's gone to some darkspace where words aren't getting through, and Nick desperately wants to nip this in the bud before they can't walk it back from disaster. "James, you need to leave."

"I'm not going to _break_ if we just…"

"James. Please go."

"Why are you being so stubborn? You want me so much you can barely hide it, but you're just fucking STANDING there being a MARTYR. What is _wrong_ with you?"

"JAMES. Get the fuck out of my flat. Now."

James rages and storms out as if it were all his idea, and Nick prays that he takes the opportunity to cool down in the night air. He sits on the sofa and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to parse _exactly_ what has just happened.

Nick is left with a sick feeling in his stomach, soured arousal under his skin, and the echo of James's words in his head. _What is wrong with you_?

…

 

Nick waits for an hour, then sends a text. _You want to know how I can wait so patiently for you to be ready?_

It takes a full ten minutes for the reply to ping. _Yes_.

_Call me_. A wicked smile creeps across his face.

In about thirty seconds, Nick's mobile begins to ring. He shifts in his bed. "Hello."

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry—"

"Shut up. You can apologise later. It's my turn now." Nick shifts again, trying to get comfortable. He wonders if James has noticed anything in his voice already. He _is_ trained to observe.

"…Okay…"

Nick puts the phone on speaker and props it on the pillow next to his head. "I trained to be an architect. You know what that means?"

"You like pencils?"

"I am very, _very_ good at imagining things. Unnngh." Nick arches his neck as his left hand pulls at his scrotum and his right fists harder at his cock.

"Nick," James says, a note of fear shaking his voice. "What are you doing?"

"This is how I am so good at waiting for you. I can imagine you. Doing all sorts of things."

"Nick…"

"Mmmmm… _Ohhh_ yeah…" Nick adds more lube and the sounds get even more obscene.

"Nicholas."

"God, James, you're right. I want you so _badly_. I think about you all the fucking time. Do you want me to tell you about it?"

"…Yes." James's voice is almost a whisper.

"Yes?"

James makes a tiny noise and gasps. “ _Yes_.”

"Nngh. Your mouth. Tonight I'm thinking about your mouth."

James just breathes.

"Oh, that mouth." Nick's voice shakes as his fingers slide circles on his frenulum. "You run it all over my cock until it's so _wet_. I'm hard as a rock, and slick, and aching for you. All I want is for you to suck me, but you keep teasing me with your tongue until I'm about to beg. Then, all of a sudden—" Nick shoves his fist down his cock and grunts. "—Unngh. Your mouth is around my cock and you're holding my hips down with both hands and you're sucking my cock as if it's the only thing you want to do in the world. It feels fucking incredible, doesn't it, James?"

After a few moments of silence, James croaks a false start and then swallows to try again. "Yes."

"I can't move my hips, but the movements of your mouth and throat are exquisite and I just have to lie there and _take it. Feel_ you. I think I'm getting close—I'm starting to feel it in my balls, and I can't stay quiet, and then—you stop." Nick takes his hands off himself and lays there, panting. "I groan, because I really wanted to come in your mouth, but I know you have something better planned. And you do. You start kissing my cock, my hips, my thighs, all over, softly, until I'm writhing on the bed." Nick is trailing his fingers all over himself, both hands, his skin flushed with arousal. “ _God_ I'm so turned on, and your mouth is incredible, but then you add your knuckle right behind my balls and it drives me _insane_.” Nick presses hard with his fingertips and groans. "And all of a sudden I can't wait anymore. I need you to fuck me. Any way—hands, fingers, cock, a toy, I don't care. I need something in me and I want to feel it there when I come, and you know it. You know exactly how I like it, don't you James?"

“ _Fuck_ ,” James murmurs.

Nick squeezes more lube onto his fingers. "God, we're making such a mess tonight. Everything is so slick. Can you hear it?"

“ _Yes_.”

"It feels incredible, James. And you push your finger in—" Nick's breath hitches. "—Inside me, and _ohhhhhhhhh_ yesss. It slips in…and out…and oh god, James I need more. I need more. Please, just— _ohhhh yes_ two fingers. God, those _hands_ of yours, they're criminal, they really are. You touch me and I just want to fuck myself on them. I want you to feel how I contract on them over and over as I come. Won't that be amazing, James?"

There's a bit of a croaking noise over the line.

"Tonight, though, you know I want more. But you want to have control in this, so you slick up my favourite toy and start–" Nick is panting now, trying to speak as he pushes in. "–Pressing it. Into. Me. Ohhhhh…" It seats itself inside Nick's body and he writhes and rolls his hips. "Ohhh, James, that's perfect. Soooo. Perfect. God, I feel so _full_. Do you like it like this, James?"

James breathes. "Yes."

"Does this turn you on like it does me, James?"

There's a strange explosion of breath. It might have been a laugh. “ _Yes_.”

"If you push on the end like this and—" Nick lets out an extremely-loud moan as he rolls the end back and forth against his prostate. "Oh god. Oh god, James, I need you to touch my cock. _Please_ ,” Nick begs, then grabs himself and starts pulling, sliding the foreskin up over the head on each jerk. "Ohhhhh _James_.”

Nick can hear a rustling noise through his phone. He smiles.

"Is this how you want me to come? Something buried deep inside me, sliding against my prostate with each thrust, and your hand on my cock, jacking me, so you can watch my face as I come all over myself?"

"Y-yes."

“ _God_ , James, I need to come. Now. I've been playing with myself for almost an hour, drawing it out until you were home. I've almost come three times already, just thinking about your mouth and your hands and your voice and what you must look like when you're naked in my bed and about to come. Can I do it? James? Please, may I make myself come now?"

“ _Fuck_.” James's breath is ragged, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Yes."

"Thank you, James. Thank you." Nick's voice is shaking. "God, I'm so close already. You drive me insane. God, harder. Harder. Harder. Oh god…Oh god…Oh, here it comes, oh, oh, _ohhhhh_ …” Nick's orgasm is slow and rippling and he rolls his hips up so far his semen hits his chin. "Ohhh _god_ James. Yesss." He moans.

On the other end, James's breathing is loud and harsh and rhythmic. It gets faster, and then suddenly it stops with a hitch.

"Ohh, James. Yes. Come. God you feel so fucking good."

There's an explosion of breath on the other end. Nick can imagine James slumped on the sofa, shirt pushed up his chest, come all over his hand and his belly. The image is incredibly fucking sexy. "Mmmm." Nick pulls the toy out then stretches and arches his back, his eyes heavy-lidded and his expression like the cat that got the cream. As it were. "That, James, is why I'm okay being patient. You are _very_ good in my head."

James is silent on the other line for nearly half a minute before he speaks. He sounds a bit drugged. "I've been—at uni, there was a guy…just one— Wasn't much, just one time. And a few girls. And then…nothing. For a really, _really_ long time. And then, recently, I tried… I kept trying… It was bad. Over and over. Every time. Mistake after mistake. And I thought I’d go back. To being celibate or…something. I'm not sure what I thought. But this time I couldn’t…resist. You were just too… And I was reticent before because I wanted to be sure. I know you aren’t a suspect. Or a murderer. Or just _using_ me—"

"Jesus _christ_ , James—"

“But we are, together…it’s too …” He huffs a dry laugh. “There is no way to say this that doesn’t sound like I distrust you.”

Nick swallows. “Try me.”

"You're so _good_. _So_ good. And we are…” He pauses, and Nick hears him swallow as well. “…good together. Very. And this. This is…” He groans. Nick imagines him scrubbing his hand over his face. “This is terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Nick says, quietly, dryly amused. “No kidding.”

“I’ve been on my own for so long. So putting my…happiness…into another’s hands is…” James coughs slightly and lets the sentence sit there.

_Oh, James. You dear, inexperienced, ridiculously-independent man._ “I totally, completely understand.”

James huffs a quiet laugh. "You're so _nice_ to me."

"I'm nice to everyone," Nick points out with a smile.

"You are," James admits, then lets out a heavy sigh. “… _Fuck_.”

Nick chuckles. "Yes."

"I've never…"

"Had phone sex with someone you weren't actually sleeping with yet?"

James laughs. "Actually had phone sex at all."

"Was it okay?"

“ _Yes_.”

James's enthusiasm makes Nick giggle. "Good. I'm glad. I like it too." He sobers a little. "Very much."

"Do you…want to do it again?"

"Right now?" Actually, Nick is sort of relaxed and comfortable, now that James has sort of explained himself and the hormones from orgasm are working their magic, but if James wants…

"No. No. I mean. Another night."

Nick considers suggesting another _daytime_ , but he thinks perhaps one barrier broached per evening would probably suffice for now. "I'd love it."

"Until I'm…ready."

"Or even after you're ready."

"After…"

"Your work hours are a bit mad, my dear. I think having a back-up plan for sex might be a good thing."

James chuckles. "True." He sighs, and Nick can hear the sofa creak as he settles back into it.

Nick tries to stifle a yawn.

"You're tired."

"Yes, Sergeant."

James chuckles again, and Nick smiles at the sound. "Why don't I let you go, er, clean up, and I can do the same, and I'll ring you tomorrow?"

"You could send me dirty texts at work, too."

James laughs. "I'll think about it."

"Please do." Nick smiles roguishly. "Good night, James."

"Good night."

James rings off and Nick prods at his phone with a slippery finger, then pulls a face at the smear it leaves on the mobile's face. He flops back down onto his pillow and grins up at the ceiling, rubber loosening his joints and joy fluttering behind his ribs. Mission _definitely_ accomplished.

* * *

Nick checks the text one more time, grins and steps through the doors to the station. He’s told at the desk that he’s expected, given precise instructions on where to go, and appears at the doorway to James’s office with a massive grin. “Happy Monday,” he says.

James swings around with a brilliant smile. “Hi.” He clearly eyes Nick up before adding, “Happy Monday yourself.”

They don’t say anything for a few tense moments; they just stare at each other and reacclimatise to each other’s presence, letting the awkwardness roll off their skin. Nick’s eyes flick over. “Is that Lewis’s desk?”

“Yup.”

“Where is he?”

“Not here.” James grins cheekily.

Nick bites his lower lip. “We have the office to ourselves for lunch?”

“We do.” James stands and bodily moves Nick to the side so he can shut the door, then moves him back. “Pull his chair over.”

“You’re allowed to just shut the door?” Nick does, looking around at all the glass windows surrounding them. “It looks like you’re supposed to be under observation. Like a test rat.”

“The door is mildly discouraging to interlopers,” James says. He steps in close, slides his hand to Nick’s waist, and bends his head to press a long kiss to his cheek. Nick can feel him breathing in. “You smell good,” he whispers.

Nick’s eyes close involuntarily. _God damn._ “You smell pretty fucking good yourself,” he murmurs roughly back, then clears his throat.

They stand there for several seconds, an inch from each other, not moving away, the closeness starting to make both breathe a little heavier. “We should eat,” James says, then swallows, then with reluctant movements steps back and blinks hazily at Nick.

“Yeah,” Nick swallows. He shakes himself back to earth a little. “Right. Yeah, erm, I brought…” He hoists the bag. “It’s just sandwiches, and some other stuff.”

“Good. Er, good.” James sits and prods the other chair with his foot.

Nick scoots it up next to James at his desk and starts laying out their food. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I brought an assortment. Cheese and pickle, ham, turkey, egg and cress…”

“These look like you made them from scratch.”

Nick blinks at him. “Of course I did.”

With a smile, James leans over and kisses him. “Of course you did.”

“I made us small garden salads, too. And there are some bananas and apples still in the bag. I hope you like mustard vinaigrette.” Nick arranges the food on a spread cloth napkin and looks up to find James staring at him. “What?”

“This is fantastic. Thank you.”

Nick flushes slightly. “You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure.”

James slides his hand to Nick’s knee and squeezes before grabbing a sandwich and settling in. “So what else do you have on today?”

Nick shrugs. “Did the shopping already. Maybe later I’ll go out again, replenish my wine supply. And I have to do some cleaning.” He smiles. “It’s a very exciting day here at Driscoll’s House of Chores.”

“Aren’t you going to relax on your day off?” James smiles, rapidly demolishing the egg and cress.

“What do you think _this_ is?” Nick smirks.

…

 

Nick is just finishing his salad when James’s head snaps up and he pulls a face at the window behind Nick’s back. “What?” he asks, spinning around, but he only sees the back of a figure leaving, white shirt and navy trousers, but nothing more than that.

“One of the constables was making beleaguered puppy dog eyes at our food,” James says, and gets up to close the blinds on either side of the door. “There’s a Pret up the road, they can go there.”

“You would doom your cohorts to a life of paperboard-wrapped lunches?”

“Well they’re not having _mine_ ,” James says plainly. He raises his eyebrows in amusement and sits back down. He pokes at one of the two remaining sandwiches.

“Go on, take them,” Nick grins. “Have them later. Or share one with Lewis, at least. You greedy guts.”

James smiles and leans back in his chair with an expansive gesture of contentment. He reaches over and warmly rubs his hand up and down Nick’s back. “Perhaps, if he behaves himself, I _might_ share the bounty. Perhaps.”

…

 

They clean up their mess, James sweeping the crumbs into the bin while Nick stashes the empty plastic storage containers in his bag. “Put these into the fridge as soon as I leave,” he says, nudging the leftovers into the centre of James’s desk, where they nudge a small pile of office-related detritus.

“Oh, that reminds me.” James picks a small flash drive out of the pile and hands it to him. “I made you something.”

“What’s this?” Nick asks, eyes wide.

“Playlist,” James says with a shy smile. “I think you might like it. I mean, I hope you will.”

The smile on Nick’s face stretches ear to ear. “ _Perfect_. Thank you.”

James looks down at him. “You’re very welcome.” He takes a step forward.

“I’ll listen to it this afternoon.”

“Do.” And with another step forward, James has crowded Nick up against the closed door. They’re both frozen, and the moment hangs there balanced on a knife’s point, poised, waiting.

James dips his head suddenly for a kiss, all passion and desperate emotion, his breath huffing through his nose. Nick runs his hands up the back of his neck and buries them in his hair, and his knees almost buckle when James whimpers. This isn’t someone afraid to move forward. This is… This is someone with _intent_. This is just pure desire, and the suddenness of the change is stunning. Nick moans and melts against him. They snog for far longer than they should, unable to pull away. It couldn't be more different from three nights ago. “I shouldn’t…” James starts, but deepens the kiss with a quiet groan. 

“ _Oh god_ ,” Nick whispers against his mouth, and pulls James close with two hands on his arse so that they’re pressed together from knee to mouth. They both moan.

“I’m at work,” James reminds them both, but doesn’t stop so much as slow the kiss to something mindblowingly intense. It spools out for a few minutes until Nick lets out a broken sound, and then the kiss breaks. They stay pressed together, gasping. “I need…” James pants. “I need to stop.”

Nick is unable to stifle a small moan. “Yes. We do.” But they’re still pressed together against the door, still moving against each other, writhing relentlessly. James inhales shakily, tips his head back, and blows out the breath through pursed lips. Nick finds himself mouthing at the base of his throat. “Any moment now.”

James shivers and fists his hands in the sides of Nick’s zip-up jumper, squeezing handfuls of the knit in a visible attempt to regain control of himself. “Oh. Nick. Stop,” he pants, but doesn’t pull away.

“I’m _trying_.” 

“Try _harder_.”

Nick chuckles against his skin. “Harder? I already won’t be able to walk out of here without embarrassment for a few minutes. What else do you want from me?”

James laughs his familiar snorting laugh and hugs him. Then he sighs and rubs his hands up and down Nick’s back, grinning. It’s Nick’s turn to shiver. He glances over to the side and sees someone at their computer not fifteen feet away. It’s the back of their head, but still. They’re awfully close.

“We forgot to close the other windows.” In spite of a vague worry someone might have seen them, Nick can’t stop grinning.

“I really can’t bring myself to care at the moment,” James smiles, and kisses Nick’s temple. Nick tips up his head to give him another soft kiss. Then James sighs and kisses him again, softly, letting their lips catch and slide. Nick hums blissfully and kisses him once more, unable to stop himself. After trading a few more soft kisses James puts both hands on Nick’s shoulders to hold him in place while he steps back, putting a foot or so of distance between them. He clears his throat. “All right. This isn’t helping. It’s…here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to sit at my desk and look at…something work-like. You are going to stand over there“—he points toward the other corner of the tiny office—“and look at whatever, Twitter or something, on your phone. Then in a few minutes, when we’re, er, you know, in a calmer condition, I’ll walk you out. Okay?”

“You’re gonna want to smooth down your hair if you want to complete the illusion of virtuousness there, sparky.” Nick smirks, but does as instructed, leaning against the wall and playing a logic puzzle game on his phone.

After a few minutes, they collect themselves—along with the bag of lunch detritus—and head out. “If you’re not working tonight, phone me?” Nick asks as they reach the front of the building.

“I will,” James says, and warmly rests his palm at the base of Nick’s spine as he opens the door. There is an awkward several seconds during which they both lean in towards each other just slightly, but at the same time they each back away again and chuckle, embarrassed.

“Okay. Later.” Nick adjusts the bag over his shoulder and shoves his fists into his jumper pockets.

James smiles. “Thanks again for lunch.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Nick says with a grin. “It really was my pleasure.”

“Oh, _mine too_ ,” James says, and smiles back.


	8. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
>  
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
>  
> 
> _Well…_
> 
>  
> 
> _Both._
> 
>  
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mazarin221b, not only for the beta-work, but for the support throughout this trying week which has been full of unpleasant surprises.

“What do you have on tonight?"

"Erm." Nick shoves the mobile between his shoulder and his ear and flips through a stack of forms. "What time?"

"At 7:30. Or 8:00. No, I think 7:30."

"Be sure?"

"Yeah okay."

"What's going on?"

"Laura had reservations at…some place and she was giving them up. I don't remember, but apparently it's very very good."

"You were paying a lot of attention during that conversation with her, weren't you."

James laughs. "We were on our way to interview a witness and we passed her on the pavement.”

Nick grimaces and pulls out a form. The rest of the stack topples. "Ah ffffor…" He sets aside the paper in his hand and, frowning, starts rebalancing the stack. "Where should I meet you?"

“I’ll pick you up.”

"Where's the restaurant?"

"I…I don't know. But I think it's…closer to your place than mine."

"Listen, James, not that I'm not pleased to be so quick on your speed dial, but maybe have the details first before asking a bloke out to dinner." He smirks into the phone.

"You twat," James snickers. Nick can hear the creak of a desk chair.

"Pick me up at 6:30?"

"Yes."

"Good."

 

Come 6:25, Nick is standing in the tiny foyer of his flat, pulling James close and straightening his tie with a proprietary expression on his face.

"Looking good there, sir."

James blushes. "Shut up."

"No, I don't think I will."

They freeze for a moment, then James swoops down to kiss Nick, pulling him tight around the waist and sliding his whole body against him until Nick grabs his arse with both hands. The kiss goes on and on, and Nick has somehow slid his thigh between James's and they are rocking their bodies against each other, gasping, clutching. Nick's eyes flutter back in his head as James lifts his thigh slightly and grinds it up between Nick's legs. Nick retaliates by digging his fingertips into the bottom curve of James's arse and sucking on his bottom lip with a moan. James shudders violently.

"Well this— _ohhhngh_ —this escalated quickly."

James moans, and rolls his hips helplessly into Nick's. "Agreed. I blame the other day at lunch.”

"I blame your face."

They both chuckle, but it rapidly turns into a groan as they rock against each other over and over and over, their knees steadily bending deeper as they strain for the best angle while still remaining on their feet.

"Did you find out what time the reservations were?"

"7:00," James gasps he sucks on Nick's adam's apple.

"Then we've no time for—No time for—No time for— Oh god, James, you've got to s-stop that—"

"I know."

They pant into each other's mouths for a while, pushing back and forth against each others' thighs and attempting to kiss.

"Okay," Nick breathes. "We— This cannot continue, or I'm going to come in my pants and be very put out. If I had a spare pair of—"

"Well, maybe you should think about keeping a change—“

"You need to stop talking right now, Sergeant, or you'll regret this conversation later."

“ _Nngh_.” James moans as Nick's hand grazes the placket of his suit trousers. "You're probably right."

"Of course I am." Nick grinds harder against James's thigh. "Oh, this is bad. I want to drop to my knees and suck you off right this fucking moment, and that will ruin these trousers.”

"Oh _fuck_ ,” James moans. He looks wrecked. "Fuck, all I can think about is the sound of you coming."

"Oh christ…Oh god, James, we're going to be incredibly late."

"I know."

"If you s-stop, right now, I will probably survive."

"Okay. Okay. _Nnngh_. Okay."

"On three. One, two—"

They push apart like two cats doused with cold water. James turns his back to adjust himself in his trousers. And Nick cracks up.

"What?" James asks as he spins back to face him. He's disheveled and mussed as he stares dazedly at Nick, whose hair is almost entirely on end.

Nick thinks he looks _gorgeous_ like that, all flushed and panting. It doesn’t firm his resolve to leave the house. Or to leave their clothing on. “Your erection was just pressed against my leg. And now you turn around for subtlety?"

"Fuck you," James says, blushing. But he says it with a smile, and he presses a kiss to Nick’s hair as he smoothes it. In return, Nick kisses him all over his long, lovely face.

…

They manage to settle down sufficiently during the car ride, but James is still smug every time he brushes his fingertips against Nick's wrist and makes him shiver. After the third time, Nick chuckles softly.

"What?"

"You want me," Nick says.

“I did say.”

For a minute they’re quiet while James drives and Nick’s mind turns over and over one thought. “Does this…"

James glances at him out of the corner of his eye but waits patiently for the end of that sentence.

"Does this mean…you're… _ready?_ ”

With a quiet cough, James bides his time before answering. "Can we talk about this after supper?"

"Sure." Nick looks out his own window. "Sure."

…

They reach the restaurant and head inside, curiously looking round. The place is all red velvet and crystal, a cliché of fine dining, but it's got a frankly _fantastic_ bronze and copper chandelier that looks like a one-off which must have cost a fortune, and various seating areas are cordoned off with distressed copper piping. The result is stylish and funky and somehow still traditional, and Nick greatly approves.

"Two for Hobson," James says, and the woman at the podium nods and leads them around the outside of the room toward the back. 

"The rest of your party has already arrived, sir."

James comically stops short. Nick just barely avoids crashing into him. "Our _party_?"

"Yes," is the only thing she says before they all turn the corner and there, sitting at a round table tucked up into an alcove, are a ruddy-faced man and a blonde woman, blinking up at them over their drinks.

"And what have you two been up to, ten minutes late. You could have lost your reservation." The woman cheeks up at them, and the man boggles.

"What are you doing here?" says the man.

"…Sir?" says James. He looks at the woman, then at the man, then back to the woman, all with an intensely-confused expression. Nick just stares around at the three of them, but especially at the man. _Sir?_

The woman laughs merrily. "Sit down, Hathaway. Robbie was just groaning about being starving."

"I…don't understand."

"It's easy. You pull out your chair and rest your little—"

"She stitched us up," the man breaks in, glaring briefly at the woman to his side. "She wanted this to happen."

"Well of course I did. You said you wanted to meet—"

"Not like this." He looks embarrassed. And not a little cranky. "Not like this. This was supposed to be—"

“Hey, they're on a date too." She smiles apologetically at Nick, then looks back at the other man. “I thought it would be fun to have our dates together." A glint of mischief breaks through the façade as she looks back and forth at the older man and James, both of whom are sullen and angry. She snorts. "Look at the pair of you children."

"I am not being a _child_ —" the man starts to explain, petulant as a seven-year-old, but she steamrolls right over him.

"Hello." She stands and offers her hand to Nick. "Laura Hobson.

"Er, Nick Driscoll," he says, casting a glance at James.

“Call me Laura.”

She seems to be giving the older man silent hell with her eyes as he stands, but he genially shakes with Nick and introduces himself. "Robert Lewis."

 _Oh. Ohhhh. Robert Lewis. His DI. THAT sir._ "It's nice to finally meet you, erm, sir," Nick says, still looking nervously at James as they pull out their chairs and sit down. James is actively avoiding his eye while he settles down and arranges his napkin over his lap, but he looks decidedly pink, and Nick can't really blame him. If their places were swapped, he’d be more than a little discomfited too.

“So Nick,” Laura asks as a member of the waitstaff fills up their water glasses. “James tells me you’re a librarian.”

Lewis— Robert— Sir— Nick doesn’t know what to call him even within the confines of his own head, but somehow at that remark he looks even grumpier.

“Yes.” _God, this is fucking awkward._ “He’s…talked about me?"

"Yes," Laura says at the same time as Lewis, who says flatly, "Not to me.”

Laura, for some reason, looks smug as she raises her eyebrows at James. “You've been dating for a month. Can you finally give me a satisfactory explanation _tonight_ why’ve you never told Robbie?"

“I _had_ worked it out, thanks,” Lewis says, shirty.

“Sir?” James’s head turns to him and he looks embarrassed, confused, and generally overwhelmed.

But instead of answering the implicit question, Lewis ignores him and snaps his gaze to Laura. “Wait. How do you know how long they’ve been seeing each other?”

"James has been texting me."

Three heads spin to stare at James, who—even in the low mood-lighting of the restaurant—appears to be turning beet-red. "I." He doesn't look any of them in the eye.

The waitress arrives to hand out menus and take drinks orders, and James slumps with relief. But she hasn't been gone thirty seconds when Lewis speaks. "Christ, man! You could bring it up to her, but you couldn't bring it up to me?!"

"I…just thought…since he was a guy…"

"What, that I couldn't help?"

"Well, she's got experience…"

"I _am_ a guy." Robbie pouts. "I could…" He searches for a word. "Extrapolate."

At this, James cracks a bashful smile and stifles a laugh. "I should have known, sir."

"Yes you bloody well should have!" Robbie nods and takes a drink.

Abruptly, Nick likes him quite a bit. He smiles into his own water glass, and resolves to interrogate James later about his texting habits with a certain Dr Laura Hobson.

They get their wine and order their food, and make small talk as they wait. Laura talks about a friend in Eastbourne who's just had a baby, and Lewis tells Nick about his precocious grandkid, and by the time their food arrives Nick feels far less uncomfortable with the situation.

Which is, of course, when Lewis turns his considerable attention on him. “Nick. Do you have any kids in your life?”

What an opening. Nick grins. “Besides James?”

“Hey!”

Lewis chuckles. “Shorter ones.”

“Everybody is shorter than him. He.”

James nods. “He.”

“Because of the understood, ‘he is’,” Nick says.

“It sounds strange.”

“Are we being prescriptivists tonight?”

“I think I’d rather not. I don’t feel very French at the moment.”

Lewis starts laughing, hard. “God help me, there are _two_ of you.”

Nick and James glance at each other, smiling.

“Alas for you, sir,” James smirks.

“You’re not going to make him worse, right?” Lewis says, pointing, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“Who can tell,” Nick says with grin. “I did kick his arse at Scrabble.”

James sits up straighter. “You did not.”

“I certainly did.”

“I was _drunk_.”

“So was I!”

“You only won because I kept using non-English words.”

“Yeah, ‘ _mata_ ’ wasn’t really going to fly. Meta, I might have given you a pass on. But ‘ _mata_ ’…no. Hell, I thought you might mean it as a threat.”

“Mata?” Robbie breaks in.

“From _matar_ , in the Spanish. To die.” Nick smirks as he explains. “I thought perhaps James was threatening my life. For kicking…his… _arse_.”

James folds his arms and tries to look sullen. Laura appears to be trying to control her laughter. Lewis, however, just raises his empty wine glass in Nick’s direction. “Nick,” he pronounces. “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

“For kicking his arse?”

“You did not—“ James turns his head to find Nick’s face three inches from his own, eyebrow raised, lids lowered, the picture of dubiousness and judgement. “—kick my arse,” he continues. He fights to keep a straight face, but his frown is clearly wobbling.

“It sounds as if he did,” Lewis says, grinning. “Now quit being stroppy, you big baby. Give us your order, I’ll buy you one too.”

James puts on his best pout as Lewis eases around the table on his way to the bar to get everyone a round. James whinges, “Introducing you two was a _terrible_ idea. Wait—“ His focus swings to Laura. “I didn’t do this, _you_ did this. This is entirely your fault.”

“I’ll take the blame, sure.” She looks smug and amused. “This is fantastic. Better than telly.”

“I never noticed you were a sadist,” James says.

“Nick,” Laura says, grinning, “I’m really glad to meet you.”

…

Further into the meal Laura turns to Nick. "So Nick, how did you come to be a librarian? James said it was a good story.”

Nick’s head swivels to look at James, who looks abashed. “Did he.”

The corners of James’s mouth quirk. “I did.”

That makes Nick smile, and he looks back at Laura. ”Do you want the long version or the short version?"

She looks amused. “The long version, obviously.” And she relishes her bite of chicken as if she were biting into the story itself.

“Busybody,” Lewis says, and gives her a fond look behind the admonishment. She just gives him back an elven, knowing, tight-lipped smile. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she chews.

Nick smiles and glances at James before he begins, absently stirring his pasta as he speaks. "Okay. Erm, first I studied to be an architect. I made it all the way to my first apprenticeship before I realised how much I disliked actually _being_ an architect. I mean, the subject is fine—I adore architecture, actually, though it does leave a slightly bitter taste in my mouth the way I left so suddenly, but anyway—I just don't care for the practise of it. Sometimes I miss it, though. It's just, there can be a real, practical beauty to a building. Something real, useful, and designing elegance into that useful thing is a real gift that can just take my breath away. It's not far off from good industrial design—taking a thing you need, you use, and making it pleasurable to handle it and interact with it, it's…it gives a sense of beauty to everyday life that I just really appreciate." Nick stops there, feeling himself slide into further rhapsodising on art and design, and pushes himself on. "And then I went to culinary school, since I'd always loved cooking." Nick smiles wryly. "Turns out I don't really get along with chefs. And _that's_ sort of a long story. Now I just like to cook for people in my home." He looks sidelong at James, smiling slightly, and is surprised to see an open, fond expression on his face. It knocks the wind out of Nick slightly, and he has to fumble for his place in the narration. "It pleases me to…" Nick has lost the thread of his thought, staring into James's eyes. But James picks it up for him, breaking the spell and looking down at his plate.

"You should see him cook, actually. It's like a dance."

“Is it,” Laura says with a knowing smile.

"He sets everything out ahead of time. _Mise en place_."

Lewis asks over his drink, “That thing with the tiny bowls?"

"The thing with the tiny bowls," James pronounces back, and Laura smirks fondly at both of them. Lewis is wincing and prodding a fresh abrasion on his cheek, and she reaches out absently to bat Lewis’s hand away with a casual intimacy that comes with being close to someone for a long time. It’s odd—James has talked about them both individually, but he’s never mentioned they were together.

Nick focuses on their conversation again. "It's a manner of food preparation—"

"He arranges everything ahead of time, and then he starts the dance—a perfectly efficient choreography of movement, from pan to oven to plate. It's rather lovely to watch," James says with a strange note of eagerness in his voice.

"Ahh," Nick smiles.

"Ahh?" asks Laura.

Nick shakes his head, a pleased warmth filling him. It explains the staring while he's cooking, it explains why James sometimes trails off at odd parts of the conversation. He'd wondered whether James was just being sidetracked by his arse, but it seems there was just a bit more to it. It's uncommonly sweet. He bows his head and glances shyly at James. "I didn't know that's why you—I thought you were just anticipating the meal."

"That too," James says, and they share a private smile before remembering where they are. 

Lewis clears his throat. "Well," he says, and takes a sip of his drink. "I'm sure James is a more-than-willing guinea pig to help you keep your skills in practise.”

"He does keep me busy," Nick says, then adds quickly, "Cooking, I mean. Meals, and leftovers."

"Ahhhh," Lewis says. "That explains those lunches you were hiding from me." He raises an eyebrow at James.

"You saw those, sir?"

Lewis gives him a look and says drily, "Detective, remember?"

James smirks. "Ah, yes. I seem to remember something about that now."

"That also explains why you were so chipper Wednesday morning," Laura pipes up. "If I'd had a meal made for me the previous night and then woke up to—"

With a twitch, James knocks over his water glass. All three of them shove their chairs back and watch the water rapidly darken the red tablecloth to black. James starts blotting up the spill with his napkin and apologising profusely, and for some reason Nick's heart is racing as he stares helplessly at the table while a busboy sweeps ice cubes and water into a bin. When they sit back down again, Nick scoots his water glass towards James. He gives Nick a thankful look and gulps at it, and as their waitress comes back to replace Nick's water glass with a fresh one James reaches under the table to take Nick’s hand and give it a squeeze. Nick subtly looks over to see the tiniest of nods—thanks, it looks like—and his mouth goes dry. With his free hand he reaches for his new glass as he interlaces his fingers through James's and squeezes back.

They barely let go through the rest of the meal. Dessert is an interminable affair, since all Nick can focus on is the warmth of James's palm against his own. He manages to acquit himself well in the conversation, he thinks, making both Robbie and Laura laugh a few times, but frankly all he wants to do is back James into a corner and snog him stupid.

Nick contrives to eat his cannolo one-handed and without a trace of irony.

…

They walk out toward the front doors behind Lewis and Laura. As a member of the staff holds open the door for them and wishes them a good evening, Lewis reaches out and slides his hand from Laura’s shoulder down to the small of her back and guides her aside to stand in the pool of light outside the doors to the restaurant. She looks up at him with that fond smile and gently cups his cheek in her palm before taking his hand. Nick catches sight of James’s face and is surprised by the shy smile dawning on his face, by the faint blush as he looks away down the street.

“Well, as unexpected as this was—“ Lewis interrupts himself to shoot a wry glance at Laura, “—it was a very nice meal. Nick?” He holds out his free hand and Nick steps forward to take it.

“It’s nice to meet you, er, sir.”

“Robbie. And I’m glad to meet you, _finally_.” This time his glance is for his sergeant, who manages to blush harder.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Yes, well—”

“Good night,” Laura says, cutting the brewing snarkfest off at the knees, and starts to pull Lewis away. “Come on, Robbie.”

“Which reminds me. I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” Lewis clears his throat. “As glad as I am to see you two together, perhaps in future you could try a bit harder to keep your mouths to yourselves? While in public?”

“Sir?” James looks confused, and Nick knows how he feels.

“I saw you two kissing in the office Monday, James. No—Snogging. _Proper_ snogging. I’m sure it was a…pleasant lunchtime, but I don’t ever want to witness that again, okay?” He makes some sort of twitching movement with his mouth.

“Oh god,” James says in horror.

“Robbie,” Laura says, trying to pull him away again. “Let the boys alone.”

“I managed never to see my kids doing that,” they can hear Lewis grouse as he and Laura walk down the pavement. “I wanted to scrub my retinas. I thought they were gonna shag right there on my desk.”

“Oh god,” James says again, standing stock still and staring wide-eyed into the middle distance.

Nick can’t help but blush furiously. “Indeed,” he says, and takes James hand to lead him in the opposite direction toward the car park.

Once both car doors shut they burst into giggles, high on icing sugar and hormones and adrenaline born of monstrous embarrassment. Nick leans over to give James a kiss on the cheek, but James turns his head to capture his mouth. Nick makes a surprised noise and smiles into the kiss. He runs his fingertips down James’s neck and hums happily as the kiss slows to a soft press of parted lips, over and over. Nick’s stomach flips and a plaintive sigh escapes before he can control it, at which point James makes a noise that sounds like a stifled groan and tilts his head. All of a sudden the kiss isn’t soft anymore. It’s deep and slow and intense, and their breathing sounds harsh in the cabin of the car, and Nick has to dig his fingers into the armrest to keep himself from crawling over the handbrake and into James’s lap. The slide of James’s tongue makes Nick moan, and James tilts his head further, pushes in harder; Nick’s heart is pounding in his ears and his skin is hyper-sensitive and it feels as if James is pouring his heart and soul into their mouths.

He’s trembling when the kiss breaks, and as James presses his forehead to Nick’s his breath is ragged. Nick’s inhales slowly, and it jitters on the apex as he fumbles for control of his lungs again. He blows it out slowly through pursed lips.

“Yeah,” James pants.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Nick breathes out, and squeezes his eyes shut just to blink them blearily open again.

James swallows hard and pulls away, and shakes it off a little. “Perhaps that’s what Robbie doesn’t want to see,” he jokes weakly.

Nick takes the offered joke gladly; it’ll help distract him from the fact that he’s aroused as hell and completely unsure where the night is going. “Surely you’ve caught him and Laura in a kiss before.”

James jerks away with a snort and a gaffaw. “No.” He laughs and rubs his hand down his face. “Not yet, thank god.”

“Really? How long have they been seeing each other?”

“As far as I know that was their first…I don’t know…real date. They’ve been dancing around each other for _years_.”

Nick blinks in amazement. “You’re serious? I thought they’d been together for aaaages.”

James raises his eyebrows and shrugs slightly. “Nope. This is new. Finally, too. I try not to…” he grimaces, “…get involved too much with that, but sometimes their…” He screws up his face and scrubs his hand in his hair. “They think so _loudly_ about each other and it’s distracting.”

Nick laughs at him. James puts the car in drive and they head off back to Nick’s house. It's only a few moments before he decides to tease James a little. “Just think: right now they could already be—“

“STOP. Just stop right now.” James chuckles. “Tonight was embarrassing enough as it is.”

“Biiiig sloppy kisses…”

“STOP.”

“And if you like I can tell you about the time my stepfather—“

“You are a horrible person.” James grabs his hand and squeezes, and they both grin in silence for a while until Nick remembers something.

“Hey, wait. You never told me why you were texting Laura.” It’s quiet for a long half a minute. “You were hoping I’d forgotten, weren’t you?” Nick teases him.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” James smirks. “Because I was hoping to avoid the explanation.”

“Which is?”

“I didn’t know what I was doing. It's embarrassing that I needed advice.”

“Fat lot of good she did. You were still a _trial_.”

“Imagine how much worse I could have been.”

“No I don’t think I will, thanks,” Nick says, and drags their hands up to his mouth to kiss James’s knuckles. “I’m fine as it is.”

“Are you?” James sends him a quick sideways glance. He looks almost…nervous.

“Of course I am. Berk.” Nick opens up James’s hand and presses it to his face, breathing against his palm. “It ended up here. With you.” After a long minute, his gaze slides to the side, and he watches James's profile against passing streetlamps as he mischievously sucks James's middle finger into his mouth. Nick can hear James's sharp intake of breath and see him squirm in his seat. He chuckles and scrapes his teeth gently against James's finger.

James moans quietly. "Nick," he breathes. "Fuck. Please stop."

Chastened, Nick takes James's finger out of his mouth and starts drying it on the stomach of his shirt. "Sorry."

James shifts again, and from the silhouette he appears to roll his hips. He lets out a puff of air through his nose, as if trying to grunt silently, then audibly swallows.

"Sorry," Nick says again. He is, a bit. On the other hand, James appears to be struggling with driving while aroused, and that itself is pretty fucking arousing, so he's not _very_ sorry. In fact, Nick has been on the edge of turned-on for what feels like hours now, pleasantly so, and he's almost looking forward to getting home and being turned down so can go to bed and wank himself into oblivion. Which is a shame, really. Because—and this is especially true after tonight—as satisfying as it will be to work off this tension in bed alone, it would be a hundred times more amazing to spend the night in bed with James.


	9. Cohesion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all the better for having Mazarin221B as its beta. I, as well as James/Nick fans, thank you for your service, Maz.

James walks Nick to the door to say goodnight, which isn't unusual. What is unusual, however, is the way he herds Nick inside the house as soon as the door is open and presses him up against the back of the door with his entire body. The intensity of the kiss is no longer unusual for them, especially after this evening. What crosses over from unusual to shocking is the enthusiasm with which James pulls out Nick's shirttails and slides his hands up his back. The sensation of skin on skin sucks away Nick's breath for a moment, and he moans into the kiss. James's fingers curl into his flesh, and he shivers, then he ducks his head and buries his face against Nick's neck. When he speaks it's all low desperation and warm breath. "Tonight," he says.

If Nick wasn't almost hard before, he certainly is now. Almost immediately. Arousal surges through him with almost knee-buckling strength, and he lets out a small puff of air. James's body against his feels hot. Solid. Rangy and muscular and so good he could weep. "Tonight?" he whispers cautiously.

"I'm ready now," James murmurs back, and Nick can feel James's adam's apple move against his shoulder as he swallows down his nerves.

"This isn't just another—"

"Nick," James breathes, with all the intensity of begging. "Please." He's hard, and clinging so desperately he's shaking. " _Now_."

_Oh. Jesus._

When Nick had thought about it, he had imagined his first glimpse of James's chest would be revealed slowly, one inch after another, as in steady desire they stripped each other with hands and mouths. But instead this is a flurry of clothing, as if they'd hit some sort of barrier of waiting and no more was physically possible; there had to be skin contact and it had to be absolutely _that moment_. He doesn't remember almost any of it, afterward, except for one part where he's hopping and trying to divest himself of a recalcitrant sock, and a charming moment wherein James insists upon making sure Nick's watch doesn't end up under the sofa or crushed by someone's foot. Nick doesn't even get to see much, because the lamp is too far away to be bothered with and the light from the hall doesn't reach this far into the shadow of the sofa where it stretches along the floor. They haven't even made it to the bed. 

They are lying next to the coffee table, legs entangled, and James's weight is pressing him down into the hardwood and it's sheer fucking bliss. He clutches on tighter in desperation and writhes, and his head falls back against the floor with a dull thunk while he gasps in pleasure. James has buried his face against his collarbone, and he moans as their bodies slide together. The sound is possibly the most fantastic thing Nick has ever heard. _God,_ he can't breathe, this is just—he's foggy with desire, but somehow they've instinctually found a rhythm and are grinding together, their feet rucking up the throw rug and shoving it away. The shuddering huff of James's breath is condensing on the cold floor over Nick's shoulder. The ceiling fan is going. His whole body is raging with _yes_ and _pleasure_ and _more_ and _need_ , and Nick suspects if he tries hard enough he might be able to merge his body completely with James's and if _this_ feels so goddamn fantastic _that_ ought to feel like ecstasy. He tries to open his eyes but they flutter closed again almost immediately.

Nick manages to get his hands on James's arse, and when he pulls him closer they both gasp. Nick cries out to the ceiling, and James lets out a broken whine, and the switch flips for both of them so that the rhythm they'd built up spins rapidly out of control. Their bodies are slick with sweat, so James's cock slides easily against Nick's hip, and the pressure of James's thigh between Nick's legs is, literally, what his fantasies have been made of all evening. Their hips roll and their fingers scrape and James's breath is still puffing in the crook of Nick's neck when he stills the frenzy by biting the meat of Nick's trapezius and groaning, low, and coming with a shuddering sob that squeezes Nick's heart. He feels James shifting his weight and suddenly there are fingers and a hand and a pressure that pulls the orgasm out of him so completely it feels like he's turning inside out.

Wrung dry and panting, Nick cradles James's head to his chest and melts into the floor. "Not the most romantic," he manages to whisper. James huffs a laugh. "But. Satisfying, I think."

James huffs another laugh, and shifts his weight in a way that is instantly more comfortable and somehow fits them closer. “It’d make a good story," he murmurs.

"Who are you going to tell it to? Robbie?" They both chuckle, finally getting their breath back, and James rubs his mouth back and forth against the sparse hair on Nick's chest.

"No, I think that would be beyond my…scope," he says, and as they giggle wearily Nick squeezes him in a hug.

"Laura might be interested."

“No no. I am saying not a thing, to anyone. You've called my bluff." Nick can hear the smile in James's voice, and when James drops a kiss on his sternum he thrills with happiness and grins up at the ceiling. James lifts up his head to kiss him softly, then that kiss leads to another, and then James makes a tiny, pained noise in his throat and tilts his head and the kiss deepens. Nick feels like James is trying to consume him, slowly, thoroughly, and at that moment what feels best is just to try and consume him right back. Nick locks his arms around James’s ribs and pours himself into the kiss until his heart clenches in his chest and the whimper breaks in his throat.

James bites down on Nick’s lower lip and holds it there for a few moments, and sighs out a thready moan through his nose. Nick fists both hands in James’s hair and James moves again, kissing Nick softly a few times before pressing their foreheads together, his eyes screwed shut.

They lay there for a while, connected, coming down from the hormone-high, the only sound in the flat that of their shaking breath. Into the near-silence, Nick finally murmurs, "What made you ready?”

"Lunch."

"Huh?"

"Monday." James rolls them onto their sides so he can drag the backs of his knuckles gently down the centre of Nick's chest, playing with the trail of hair. "You brought me lunch."

Nick chuckles quietly. "I remember. If I'd known this would happen as a result I would have done it earlier."

For a few moments, James just sits there playing with Nick's chest hair. It makes Nick smile. Then James speaks. "You are so…you. I want you in my life. Even when you're being a prat." The corner of his mouth quirks up, then he sobers again. "At lunch I felt…cared for. I have this…man in my life who genuinely likes me, who is happy to see me, who fits in my life. And he cares for me. I…" But he doesn't finish the thought, instead closing his mouth and swallowing hard.

Nick's heart pounds against his ribs. He stares at James's silhouette against the dull grey of the ceiling. "Come to bed with me," he murmurs.

James leans in and gives Nick a long, soft, lingering kiss, then another. He rests their foreheads together for a moment, before pulling back from the edge of emotionality with a tiny shake of his head. "I think we've gone about this in the wrong order. Shouldn't we have been in bed al—" It makes a quiet sucking sound as he gingerly pushes himself apart from Nick, and Nick feels a sophomoric giggle bubbling up. James stops moving and takes stock. "I'm…going to clean up first, a little."

"Good idea," Nick replies. "I'll go in after."

James pads off to the loo while Nick sits up. His back _really_ isn't going to thank him for this tomorrow, but tonight he couldn't possibly care less. On his way to his bedroom he stops off in the kitchen for two large glasses of water, and sets them on the bedside tables before checking to make sure his sheets are reasonably clean and nothing incriminating is on display. He'd really not expected company tonight, and with that thought he experiences a flash of delight that he finally gets…well, that he finally gets _James._

Nick hears the door open and the man himself stands leans against the jamb, hesitating.

"You loom very well," Nick points out, helpless to stop the grin that spreads across his face. Happiness expands in his chest.

"Do I."

"No one has told you that before?"

"No, I don't believe anyone ever has," James says with a faux-thoughtful moue, before he suddenly takes two steps into the room and sweeps Nick into a deep, filthy kiss that curls Nick's toes into the carpet. Without thinking, Nick drags his fingernails down James's back and instantly James straightens up with a hiss. Nick is about to apologise when, eyes still closed, James lets out a huff of air and moans, scooping Nick close again and kissing him even more enthusiastically than before. _Jesus fucking christ._

Nick lets the kiss spiral out for a minute or two before he insists, "I was supposed to clean up."

"Mmmhmm," James hums, distracted by sucking a kiss into Nick's neck.

"You've come all over me," Nick says, and the reaction is almost as striking as when he used his fingernails. James freezes, then moans, and Nick can swear he felt James twitch against his hip. "Hold that thought," Nick whispers emphatically, then slips from James's arms to use the loo and clean himself off a little.

He returns barely three minutes later to find James skulking around awkwardly, staring at the random bric-a-brac on his dresser with his hands laced behind his back. He looks so dear, so vulnerable standing there naked in an unfamiliar room, and Nick feels his stomach flip. He marches straight in and up to James and winds his arms about his neck to pull him into a desperate kiss. Nick waits, as they snog and he can feel his heartrate start to rise again, for James to push him down on the bed, or walk them over to its edge, or anything, but it doesn't come. Eventually he suggests, "Bed?"

"Mmm. Yes," James says, and this time he walks Nick to the bed but still doesn't push him down. Instead, Nick scoots backward and pulls James on top of him for some more languid, delicious snogging. He drags his nails down James's back again and is rewarded with a low moan and a shiver. "That sounds good," he whispers into James's ear.

"Mmmhmm," James hums, and writhes a little.

Nick runs his hands over every inch of skin he can reach. It's…just _delectable_ , the quarter-million pale miles of skin, the soft noises James makes, the way he breaks out into gooseflesh on his arms when Nick drags his fingers up his sides. The way he can't stop moving, sliding his body against Nick's as though the pleasure were too much to handle motionlessly. James starts to mouth his way across Nick's chest, and—"Ngh." _Fuck._ His mouth feels _amazing._ "More."

James keeps laying open-mouthed kisses across his skin, and Nick can hear the roughness creeping into his breath and feel him start to harden already against his thigh. The eagerness is startlingly arousing. "You are so goddamn sexy," Nick whispers. "God, I want you so badly. I don't even know what I want first.” With a bit of a smile, James tongues at Nick’s nipple. That smile broadens when Nick twitches. “Ungh. I wish you'd worn your white tie tonight. Sometimes I fantasise that you're wearing it and I get to grab on to it as you fuck me into the mattress, hips snapping so hard I have to hold on."

James stills and moans against the skin of his ribs. "Oh my god."

"That's my favourite of your outfits, the white tie and pink shirt. Sometimes I want you to wear that, and bend me over the restroom sink during your lunch break at work and fuck me, rough, and you have to hold the tails of the shirt out of the way so you can watch yourself fuck me and all I can do is bite my hand and try not to shout."

James drags his head up to look at him, and his irises are nearly all black.

"You really have no idea the fantasies I have about you, James Hathaway. Filthy things. Fucking vigorously up against the back wall in the stacks, where it's _so_ cool and we wouldn't break a sweat and no one would know. Sucking you off while you're on your mobile, then fingering myself while you watch. Having you plug me then going to a concert, and you'll know I'm sitting there hard as a rock and so fucking _desperate_ to come, and you can decide whether to take me into your mouth at the interval or make me wait until we're home."

James looks stunned.

Nick stares at him. "What are you waiting for?"

With a ragged moan, James pounces on Nick with a kiss that shakes his entire body. He breaks the kiss to breathe, then exhales another moan before kissing Nick again. The moans keep coming, one after another, on every exhale, between every kiss, and Nick thinks he might be going mad with the sound of them filling up his head. "Tell me what you want to do," Nick whimpers.

"I don't know," James replies.

"Yes you do."

"I don't."

"You _must._ "

"I really—I really don't know."

" _Please,_ James."

"Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

"Because…" Nick writhes, feeling a slight ache start in his balls. "Jesus _christ_ , I just need you to…" He lets out a groan of frustration. "God, just. Get the bottle of lube from the table to my right."

" _Yes._ " James immediately sprawls across the bed, and Nick closes his eyes. When James finds it, he returns to lying between Nick's legs and waiting patiently.

"Coat your fingers," Nick instructs, and watches with a strange sense of amusement as James eagerly complies, diligently spreading the lube around and looking up when he is finished.

Nick coughs out a dark laugh at that expression—like a labrador waiting for the ball—and just barely stops himself from pressing his hand to his face. _Doesn't it just figure._ But he looks down at James and spreads his legs wide. "Use your first finger. Slowly. Just up to the second knuckle." He props himself up on his elbows to watch, and almost melts at the intent look on James's face as he obeys, spreading a little lube around first then slowly, achingly slowly, pressing in one finger. James looks up into Nick's face as he's doing it and Nick is stricken by a rush of lust so strong he misses a breath. "More. Never mind about the knuckle, just…nnnnngh." Nick's head rolls back. "Oh _God_ that feels good. Jaaaaames…”

James makes a tiny groaning noise, and starts to thrust his finger in and out. 

“Slowly,” Nick gasps. “Slowly slowly slowly slowly…”

James moans loudly and obeys, fingering Nick for several minutes, long after Nick is ready for more, James’s body language patient and willing and pliant. And so, _so_ aroused. 

It occurs to Nick he’s going to have to instruct James what to do next, or he’ll just keep doing this all night. And while that’s not an _entirely_ unwelcome concept… "Two fingers now," Nick says. "Fuck me with two fingers, until I say stop." James does so, seeming immensely fascinated with the sight of his fingers disappearing and reappearing, and at the flutter of Nick's breath whenever he pushes in. "Mmmmm." Nick is hard-pressed not to move. He wasn't lying the other night; those fingers really were the stuff of fantasies. “Oh god, James,” Nick whines. “Has—has anyone ever done this to you?”

There's silence for a few moments before James answers, quiet and hoarse. "No."

“Can I— _uuuunh_ —can I do it? Please? Ohhhh, please… I want to put my hands all over you. In you. I want to feel you come with my fingers inside you. Oh _god_ I want you to feel how good this feels.”

James huffs out a breath. He moans and lets his forehead fall to Nick’s thigh, still moving his fingers, but after a few moments he lifts his head again and watches his fingers slide in and out, over and over. He makes a small, broken noise in his throat and abruptly presses his face against Nick’s thigh, breathing roughly.

"Are you ready for what's next, James?" Nick says weakly.

James just nods.

"With words, James."

"Yes," James rasps.

Nick flails an arm over and grabs a condom from the bedside table. James looks at it nervously, but Nick makes a scoffing noise. "This isn't for you, this is for me." The flash of heat in James's eyes is absolutely stunning, and Nick files that away for later. He opens it and slides it over his own cock, hissing quietly at how sensitive he is as he rolls it down, then looks down to confusion on James's face. "Suck me," he demands in a growl, and if anything the heat in James's eyes stokes up higher. He shifts up Nick's body, eyelids already fluttering in anticipation. "Slowly," Nick murmurs, and James moans as he bends his head.

Nick looks down to watch James mouth softly along the underside of his cock, and he loses all control of the situation. He doesn't care. It's luscious, intoxicating, and his toes curl as he watches that agile lower lip slide lightly and caress his frenulum, and then suddenly, without warning, James swallows him down. Nick gasps, and his head drops back as the heat suffuses him. It's so…wet. Gorgeous. Soft. He can't help but moan, and shake, and his fingers grip at the air as if he's looking for something to hold on to, to ground him. He moans again. "Oh Jesus fuck. Oh god. Oh god, James. _Please_." He whimpers. The wet noise James is making goes right to his cock, and he's not sure he could possibly _be_ any harder. He wants James to grab his hips and bruise him, but he's almost positive that's not in the cards, so instead he lets his legs flop open and abandons himself to the rolling pleasure of it.

James is doing awfully well, all things considered. It's probably that mouth. That pouty fucking mouth. _God,_ Nick wishes he could just come down his throat. Tests. Tests need to happen. He's reasonably sure they're fine, but— Nngh. Tests. Especially because he suspects the way James is flicking the tip of his tongue against his frenulum could be his undoing without the barrier of the condom, and once he teaches James how to pull his foreskin up over the head— _Fuck,_ that will feel so good he might weep. James should go harder. James should go harder. Nick's brain registers that he's going to have to tell him this, and he manages to pull together the right brain cells to get the message across.

"Harder." James falters. "Suck harder." Then James moans, lips pressed against the underside of Nick's cock, and fuck if that isn't beautiful. In the next moment James has swallowed him down again and is hollowing his cheeks, plunging down and down and almost-off and down again, and the bobbing is glorious and the ruddy blush on his face is stunning and then suddenly James remembers that two fingers are still buried in Nick's arse, and that's when everything falls apart in Nick's head. James twists and thrusts and _curls_ his fingers, and all in rhythm with the steady suction on Nick's cock. Nick's thighs start to tremble uncontrollably, and the hot tension is building, and he can feel himself starting to squeeze around James's fingers, to get tighter, to get impossibly harder inside James's mouth, and then with a cry he slides over the edge and comes with a massive convulsion, pulsing around James's hand and up into his mouth, groaning with the pleasure suffusing his body. He writhes, and then cries out with a jerk when James curls his fingers just so and presses against his sensitised prostate. He moans, writhing even more, and enjoys the flush of hormones surging in his brain. It feels like his skin is made of light for just a moment before he's dumped back down to earth, aware of James's knuckles uncomfortably wedged between his legs and the heaviness of James's head on his hip. Nick drags an arm that weighs fifty pounds up off the mattress to nestle his fingers in James's hair and he twitches with an aftershock.

"All right?" Nick whispers.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes." James sounds very far away.

"Come up here," Nick urges, and after a breath James's fingers slide from inside him and James is pillowing his head on Nick's shoulder, wet hand awkwardly held out to the side. "Do you want to go wash your hand?" James hesitates. "Go wash. Then come right back here." Nick unashamedly watches him leave and return with an impressive erection still bobbing in front of him. He holds his arms out, and James slides into them. "That was so good," he murmurs. " _So_ good." James swallows but doesn’t say anything, and Nick is afraid he's starting to lose him into his own mind.

"James." Nick waits until James finally looks up to smile and say, "Has anyone ever bossed you around in bed before?"

James shakes his head again. "No."

"Do you usually boss other people around?"

For a moment, James thinks. "I don't think so. I think we usually just…do what's expected."

"How do you know what's expected?"

James shrugs. "We just…do. Sometimes a woman will tell me what she likes. I enjoy that. It's helpful."

Nick nods. "That makes sense." He considers his next step, then decides to postpone it for another time. Hopefully they'd have all the time in the world for experiments in power dynamics and preferences and the intersection of pleasure and pain. "What do you want next? Do you want me to make you come?"

James's fingers twitch spasmodically where they lay on Nick's stomach, and Nick tries very, very hard to stifle his smile. The fact that James is on a hair trigger shouldn't be amusing, but it _is_ so very, very adorable. "Lie back," Nick suggests. "Let me return the favour." After only a moment's hesitation James scoots back and waits for Nick to dispose of the condom and get a new one. When Nick turns back from the bedside table he is arrested by the sight of James sprawled against his pillows, all pink blush and golden hair and draped limbs and that _cock_ , hard and mouthwatering and just…waiting. Nick leans over for a kiss, and slides his hand from balls to crown, enjoying the moan and the way James rolls his hips. "Do you want my fingers inside you?" Nick whispers.

James's eyes open and he freezes. "I…I don't…" He swallows. "No. Not…yet. Not tonight."

"That's okay," Nick says against his mouth and kisses him again, giving him another stroke or three until James is writhing on the bed. Nick adores the way his long toes are curling into the blankets, and he hopes he can continue to make that happen; it's been a while, and he's out of practise. Is giving a blow job like riding a bike?

Nick slicks a bit of lube onto his fingertips and smears it on the head before rolling the condom down. "All right?" he asks James, looking up as he slides down beside his hip.

James nods, and swallows, and Nick abruptly wonders how long it's been since James has been on the receiving end. They really ought to talk. But…later. Because now…

Nick bends his head and mouths wetly at the head, over and over, listening to James's breathing deepen and get heavy, rough. He wraps his lips around the corona and tongues at the tip, and is pleased at the choked noise James is making. This is _fantastic._

It turns out that giving a blow job _is_ a bit like riding a bike, because after the first thirty seconds Nick has forgotten how long it's been and is losing himself in the sensuality of the act. He loves this, in spite of usually preferring to cede control; it's intimate and establishes such a _connection_ Nick feels he practically has a digital readout as to the state of his partner's arousal.

And James is delightfully responsive. Almost every suckle and lick gets a reaction, and so it's easy to bring him right up to the brink of orgasm and back him down, over and over, until he's twitching and sweating and limp on the sheets, frustrated but drunk with pleasure. Finally Nick decides to take pity on him and speeds up, bobbing his head and groaning around James's cock, pulling gently on his balls until, like a rubber band snapping, James comes. He thrusts his hips up with grunt, nearly choking Nick in the process, and shakes and shakes. Finally he collapses boneless to the mattress and gasps for air, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the ceiling.

Nick arranges himself at James's side and waits for him to mostly come back from wherever he's gone. "You got laid, Sergeant," he jokes quietly.

James doesn't move. "Nnnhnn."

"Was it good?"

There is a tiny twitch of James's head, as if he tries to nod but fails. "Mmm."

"Come baaaack," Nick sings quietly. "It can't have been _that_ good."

James strikes, pulling Nick down and hugging him to his chest. Nick's face is smothered against James's pectoral until he can rearrange himself to both of their liking. James holds him close for a few minutes, mind clearly whirring, and Nick wonders if he shouldn't intervene, and he gets as far as pushing up onto his elbow before James speaks.

"I let this go too long," he whispers. He looks, for lack of a better word, poleaxed. His eyes close in an expression of pain and he works his jaw, then his eyes blink open again and he stares at Nick with an intense expression that clutches at Nick's heart. "If I had just— If we had just, earlier. If we had just had sex right away I could have…just been a thing we did, but I let this go… _us_ go too long to take this lightly and if I… _feel_ something, it's entirely my fault. I am such an idiot." Nick shakes his head and starts to interrupt, but James ploughs on. "I was afraid of this. That I would feel too much, and so I waited, but while I waited we've just…grown…closer, and now I _do_ feel it. A self-fulfilling prophecy, and now I just…" His eyes close with pain again, and he takes Nick's face in his hands and kisses him, hard. Then he wraps his arms around Nick so tightly he can barely breathe, and they hold each other again.

"I knew from the start I wasn't going to be able to be casual with you," James whispers.

"I never wanted you to be."

James closes his eyes and swallows hard, then he presses his face to Nick's hair and inhales shakily. "Nick…" he whispers.

Nick squeezes his eyes closed. He mouths at James's shoulder and tries to breathe. Something about this moment _hurts,_ bone-deep. James gathers Nick tighter into his arms and Nick just holds on.

His mind spins and tips and roils. He's processing this information, what this feels like, letting the hormones flood through him and… _god_ James smells good like this, sweat and sex and shampoo and his fading deodorant, and his body feels amazing, and he makes Nick feel worthy and needed, makes him feel a sort of satisfaction he never knew he was capable of. He _feels_. His body is on edge, every cell increasingly aware of James's closeness, and emotion is keeping his frame taut and fragile, but still he floats endlessly in a sort of fog. Hours could have passed, and he wouldn't have noticed.

"I've never been…astonished, by sex before." James wakes Nick out of his daze.

"And you are?"

"Quite."

"What _have_ you been?"

"By sex?"

"Mm." James tenderly cards his fingers through Nick’s hair. "Satisfied. Entertained. Intrigued. Pleased." He chuckles. "Bored."

"If I ever bore you, I'll quit the whole thing altogether."

"What, sex?"

"Yes. I will make it my life's work to keep astonishing you."

"Your _life's_ work," James says lightly.

Nick turns crimson. "Well. I mean. You know what I mean."

"I do," James says, sounding as reasonable as it is possible to sound.

"You shouldn't ever be bored. You _must_ promise to tell me if you are."

"Mm. Okay."

"James." Nick pushes up to his elbow to look James in the face. "Promise me."

One of James's eyes creaks open, and upon seeing the serious of Nick's expression he's suddenly alert. "Er. Yes, I promise." His brow furrows momentarily. "You're serious about this."

"Of course I am." Nick's expression softens. "This is part of my connection with you. If we’re not… I mean, this is… Connection is kind of the point. To this kind of relationship.”

James swallows nervously. "Right. Yeah." He looks scared for a moment, but it clears and he pulls Nick full-length down upon him to wrap his arms about his ribs and squeeze. He rubs his mouth along the soft skin of Nick's shoulder. 

"So…are you staying?"

"Over?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to?"

Nick looks at him for a few moments, then his eyes fall closed and he buries his face against James's neck and starts to softly kiss his throat. "Please," he whispers.

James blows out a breath and brings his arms up to bury his fingers in Nick's hair. He whispers back. “Then I'll stay."


	10. This Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mazarin221B for the beta, even through the holiday madness. Mad, mad, madness. No. Really.

`N: I miss you already. Is that pathetic?`

`J: Yes.`

`N: You’ll not put me off, you with your honesty.`

`J: Good. That’ll help.`

`N: Help with…?`

`J: The fact that I’m going to admit something completely embarrassing.`

`N: PLEASE DO.`

`J: The reveal: My shirt from last night smells of you. I was sniffing it all morning.`

`N: That’s it. I’m out of here. That is too much for me.`

`J: I thought that might do it.`

`N: I am appalled. APPALLED. I’m never making you crepes ever again. Nor the apple walnut compote. You get cold, soggy, Wheetabix the rest of your life.`

`J: I repent. I didn’t smell the shirt. Nor did I just get in to work only to be smirked at knowingly by Lewis.`

`N: Well. As long as that’s the case, I suppose I’ll continue to make you crepes. Maybe I’ll poach pears next time, though. Consider this your warning. (Did he say anything?)`

`J: He said I looked “well-shagged”, and then smirked at me. This is going to be a very long day.`

`N: But no regrets? Remember: you’ll not put me off with your honesty.`

`J: None whatsoever, Nicholas Driscoll.`

...

`N: There’s a rubbish film about a giant shark on at 7. If I make popcorn, will you come over and mock it with me?`

`J: I was going to read that book on the history of Hammer Horror that we picked up yesterday. Can I bring it?`

`N: If you want to multi-task and complete your assigned reading, please do. As your teacher, I will be proud to have such a diligent student. However, I still plan on throwing popcorn at the telly.`

`J: I plan on eating it.`

`N: You always are the sensible one.`

...

`J: I think I left my jumper at yours yesterday morning.`

`N: You did indeed. Okay if I give it to you next time we see each other, or did you need it sooner?`

`J: Can I be seeing you tonight?`

`N: I’d like that.`

`J: How late are you working?`

`N: I’m done at 8. Come over after?`

`J: I’ll come over as soon as we’re at a stopping point for the day.`

`N: That works for me.`

`N: Hey, you know, you should leave your jumper here in the morning. Stay tomorrow night too.`

* * *

Nick looks up from his computer to find a towering version of his boyfriend, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets and a stupid grin on his face.

“Oh-my-god-hello,” he says, chuckling. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Absolutely aaages,” James says, a teasing sparkle in his eyes.

“It’s only been a minute, hasn’t it.”

“About ten seconds, yeah.”

Grinning happily, Nick stands up and leans across to give him a quick kiss. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“I finished up my paperwork from the Carruthers case, and I thought I’d stretch my legs and come say hello. Hello.” James rocks up onto his toes a few times and grins again.

“And you were just going to lurk there until I saw you?”

“Yep.” James pops the “p” and smirks.

“You arse.”

The preceding week has been some kind of ridiculous fantasy, the usual work-a-day business brightened by spontaneous texts and sappy smiles and nights spent tangled in each other’s arms. Nick doesn’t remember ever being so goddamn happy at a time when he’s still had to go to work in the mornings and do errands and sweep the floor. Real life doesn’t feel like this. This feels like a _dream_.

“How’s your day?” James is grinning at him in the middle of the reference area, and it’s brilliant. 

“Better now,” Nick says, getting a bit swept away with the romance of it all. “How long can you stay? Do you want tea?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. I can’t stay too long. I should get back before Lewis gets ‘crany’.”

They both start snickering, and Nick thinks about teasing James for the ridiculousness of the reference when he hears a voice behind him. “I don’t think you _ever_ looked at me like that.” Ian comes up from behind him and makes his way around the desk with his hand out. “This must be James. Ian Travis. It’s great to finally meet you.”

There’s a strange expression on James’s face as he shakes Ian’s hand. “James Hathaway.”

“Oh, I can tell,” Ian smiles fondly at Nick. “You two are _adorable_.”

“Oh, stuff it,” Nick says, blushing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ian grins. “I’d be jealous, but that ship sailed a loooong time ago.”

“And Mel would punch you in the face.”

Ian snorts. “That too. Anyway, hello.” He beams at them, appearing to be genuinely chuffed. “Nick has told me great things. Are you here to take him out to lunch?"

James looks at Nick with surprise painted broadly across his face, but he recovers quickly. “Oh. Erm, have you…eaten yet? It’s past two, I thought…”

“No, I missed lunch. A professor needed something for an afternoon lecture. Did you…”

“Yeah, but early. We could…”

“Yeah, if you wanted…”

“I’d like that…”

“Okay.”

They stand there shyly, blushing at each other, and Ian starts chuckling at them. “I feel like I’ve accomplished something with my day, now.” He grins, a bright and cheery thing. “You lovely boys have fun. James, it was nice to _finally_ meet you.” He directs a pointed look at Nick, raised eyebrow and all.

“Nice to meet you as well, Ian.” James offers his hand, and they shake.

Ian waves at them as he heads down the stairs, and James turns to Nick.

“Ian is your ex,” he says very evenly.

“Yeah,” Nick says. “Hadn’t I told you that?”

“No, you…never said.”

“Oh! Sorry.” Nick shrugs. “I forget sometimes. It’s been so damn long. He’s been with Mel for at least…” He thinks. “…Six years.”

“Oh.” James thinks for a few moments, then swallows and seems to shrug it off. “Well. Did you, er, still want to go to lunch?”

“Yeah,” Nick smiles shyly. “Okay.”

…

Lunch is…fine, but if Nick is honest with himself there’s some strange awkwardness hovering in the air around them all through the meal. It’s nothing overt, not really, but James seems distracted and not nearly as cheery as he was when he’d first showed up at Nick’s desk. In point of fact, he’s not as cheery as he’s been all week.

"…And I said to her, 'If you don't want to cry, why the hell are you watching Downton Abbey?' To which she had no reply, of course, because she…was…" Nick blinks at James, who has been staring into the middle distance for the whole second half of the story. "…Turning in a squirrel. Right then and there. I sent in a photo to the Daily Mail but they said even they wouldn't… James. Earth to James. Come in, James."

That finally gets a reaction. Sort of. "Hmm?" James eventually focusses on Nick. "Squirrel?"

"Do you need to get back to work, or something?"

"Soon, yes. But it can wait until we're finished eating."

"Where did you go?" Nick teases him gently. "I told you Amanda transformed into a squirrel in the middle of the non-fiction section, and that's the sort of thing you _usually_ question me on."

James rubs his fingers over his eyes and forehead. "Sorry, I'm just a bit tired."

"Not been sleeping enough?" Nick smirks lasciviously at him.

"Not sleeping _well_ ," James says. "Perhaps I… Perhaps I should stay home tonight, and get a full night's rest. I'm not used to sharing a bed."

Nick looks worried. "I'm not tossing and turning too much, am I?"

"No, no," James shakes that off dismissively. "I'm just not used to it. Having a body there. Not being able to sprawl out."

"Ah."

"I'll get used to it in time, I promise. I'm just…" James made a rueful face. "I'm knackered."

"Well, that's easily fixed. We'll spend tonight apart." It makes Nick slightly sad—he'd been enjoying the sleeping arrangements immensely, and their frequency—but he has to admit that he does have the advantage in this. He's slept with a bedpartner _far_ more often than James.

"Sorry."

"No, no, that's fine. Really." Nick picks up James’s hand and presses the knuckles to his lips for a moment. "I don't want you to be tired. Your work is important. You need to be rested."

"I've worked full days after pulling all-nighters before," James says with a note of consternation.

"That's different to being worn-out day after day for a week. Give it time. You'll get used to sleeping with someone eventually." Nick kisses his hand again and gently puts it down on the table. “Be patient, Superman. Now finish your pie and then we both can get back. I don't think either of us is supposed to be gone long."

"So. What's Ian like, then?" James asks as he picks up his food again.

Nick gives him a surprised, dubious look. "You really want to know?"

"Of course. He's…still a part of your life. He and Mel. And you were with him for…a while?"

Nick sits for a moment, processing the idea of talking about this with James. Then he shrugs and makes a dismissive noise. "Four years. Ish? On and off for a little while after that. But then he fell in love with Mel, and she left her girlfriend to be with him, and soon after that I ended up starting library school."

James swallows, and says, "So you were with him while you were a chef."

"Yes," Nick says, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the conversation.

"I…don't know anything about your life together."

Nick blinks. "Well, I'm…hardly going to…talk about it much. Especially with… I mean, it's usually poor form to go on about a previous relationship. And…well, he and I been friends far longer than we were together, so…there's a lot more to talk about that's not about our relationship."

"Did you become a librarian to work with him?"

"No no," Nick shakes his head. "He's not a librarian. He's a conservator. We just happen to work at the same place because he was working there when I finished school, and he was there at the right place and the right time to tell me that the position was available."

"You both like books."

"And art." Nick admits. "We had a lot of art in the house."

The last bite of James's pie stopped halfway to his mouth. "You lived together?"

Nick winces slightly. "Erm. Yeah. For a couple of years. Four years is a…long enough time to have been together to have gotten to that point."

"Oh." James finishes his food and brushes his hands off on his trousers. "Yeah, I suppose that's true. I didn't really think about that."

"Well," Nick says, trying to shrug off this entire conversation with one gesture. "Anyway. That's far in the past. I was a whole different person then. Almost literally—they say all the cells in your body are renewed after seven years, right? And this has been about seven."

"Yeah," James nods. "They do say that."

"Come on, baby." They stand up and bin their garbage, and Nick slides his hand up and down the centre of James's back reassuringly, suddenly feeling the deep need to touch him. "Let's get back to work."

* * *

A week later, Nick wakes up that Friday morning with a pounding head and a dull ache in his chest.

“Hi James,” he says into his mobile on his way in to work. “It’s me. We haven’t talked in a few days, and I just wanted to check in and see what’s going on. Hope to talk to you soon. Bye.”

Saturday, he calls on his lunch break.

“Hi James. I haven’t gotten any texts back from you since Tuesday, so I thought I’d try calling. Er, hope things are okay. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah? Bye.”

On Sunday, he sends a text as he’s making dinner.

N: Making a roulade tonight. Have enough for two. It’s impressive looking. You should come over and be impressed.

Monday, he sends one more text before he goes to bed, his hand shaking and his throat thick.

N: I’ll be here, when you want to talk to me again. But in the meantime I guess I’ll let you be. Thanks for everything, James. I mean it.

He puts his mobile on the bedside table and in the wee hours of the morning finally falls into a restless sleep, wondering if he should have said goodbye.

…

Tuesday, he goes into work.

“You look like shit,” Ian says, coming up behind him, eating an apple.

“Thanks,” Nick says flatly. He goes back to entering new acquisitions into the database.

“You ill?”

“No.”

“Not sleeping?”

“Just piss off, Ian, okay?” Nick slams a book shut and adds it to the stack next to him.

“Whoa, sorry,” Ian says, and lounges against the desk. “What’s eating _your_ biscuit?”

“Nothing,” Nick says.

“Well let me tell you, _that’s_ convincing.” Ian takes a bite of his apple.

“Are you just here to eat in my ear? Because I got enough of that all through my mid-twenties.”

“No, Sally Sourpatch.”

Nick rolls his eyes. “And now he takes refuge in being camp.”

“I’m not taking refuge, you prat. I’m trying to cheer you up.”

“Well it’s certainly working.”

“Don’t be an arse to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You’re gonna have to, at some point, and since I’d be willing to bet something fairly expensive you’re not going to talk about it with _him_ , why don’t you try it out first on me?”

Nick scowls at his computer monitor. “What makes you think my problem is with a him?”

“Nick.” Ian raises his eyebrows and stares. He doesn’t move, ignoring Nick’s attempts at ignoring him.

Eventually Nick gives in. “I think I…let him go last night.” He swallows.

“Wait, what? Let him go?”

“We haven’t talked in a week,” he says to his monitor. “He won’t phone me back. Or text.”

“He just…stopped.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea why?”

“No.”

“Is that the truth, or are you lying to me again because you want me to go away?”

“What’s the likelihood that you _will_ go away?”

“Until you share with Dr. Travis? Very little.”

“Why the hell do you care?” Nick scowls.

Ian drops the effusive bonhomie for a moment. “You looked so happy, Nick. I liked seeing you so happy.”

“I thought we were.” Nick’s face shuts down and he stares unseeingly at his monitor. “I _know_ we were.”

With a sigh, Ian sits fully on the desk and sets his apple aside. He thinks for a moment. "You just let him go?"

Nick shrugs. "It seemed to be what he wanted."

“What’s the last thing he said to you?”

“A text. ‘I’m very busy on this case, I have to focus, sorry.’ Or something like that. He was legitimately busy; it was that murder case that was in the papers. But they solved it, and usually that’s when he becomes communicado again.”

“But this time, not so much?”

Nick shakes his head gently. “I thought it might be an excuse.”

“For?”

“To end it.”

“Nick, I don’t th—“

“Because even if he’s caught up in something else, he’s always taken the time before to say _something_. Even a few words. There must be ten minutes of downtime _somewhere_ in his schedule. He’s always been perfectly diligent about keeping me posted. But this time…” Nick trails off and stares into space, hollow, dejected.

Ian squeezes his shoulder. “Listen, I don’t know the bloke in the slightest, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. And you don’t typically pick arseholes.” He smiles. “Maybe give him a little more time, then see?”

Nick swallows, and nods. “Yeah. I know. It’s only been a week. Maybe…something’s happened. Something important." He frowns, and adds softly, "I hope he's not hurt."

"Don't you think someone would have told you?"

"Maybe,” Nick murmurs. But he doesn’t look convinced.

…

Wednesday morning dawns, and Nick is _furious_.

He stews as he eats breakfast, growls his way through traffic, and barks at a fresher who is lingering in the middle of the pavement, fiddling with her phone.

His coworkers wisely leave him alone. Even Ian is conspicuously absent all day.

Without anything of substance to burn, Nick’s anger starts to consume him from within, leaving collapsed on the sofa at the end of the day, feeling like a hollow shell, all his innards having fallen away to ash. Out of a sense of duty to his stomach he orders a pizza. It tastes like cardboard and he goes to bed early only to wake up at 3am with blazing heartburn.

…

Thursday passes. He goes to work, comes home, forces down a bowl of cereal. He barely feels a goddamn thing.

…

On Friday, he’s back to being angry. He goes straight to the pub from work, and calls Mel on his way there.

When she arrives, Nick has already dug in and fortified his position.

“Mellllll,” he says, when she arrives at the pub. “Mel.”

“How pissed are you?”

“Very.”

“What the hell is going on? Is it James? Did he officially finish with you? If he was an arsehole I’ll—I don’t care that he’s a cop, I’ll go over there and punch him right up the bracket.”

“Yes. No. I don’t fucking know. He’s not returning my calls, Mel.”

“Yes I know that, dear, keep up. Ian told me. Has there been a development?”

“A development? Nooo, we still haven’t talked. It's been a week and a half.”

“So you still know nothing.”

“Correct.”

"He's a _cock_."

"No, Mel…"

"Seriously, what the hell? You're having a lovely time, and then he disappears off the planet without a word? He's a _cock_."

Mel plunks down next to him at the bar and orders a pint.

"He's not a cock," Nick slurs. "He's lovely. Just confused."

"Not phoning you back for a week is fairly cockish, dear."

"A week and a half."

Mel holds her hand palm up as if to say, _See_?

“GOD.” Nick collapses and lets his head fall onto his arms, slumped on the table. “I must have done something. What if I deserve this? What if he’s angry with me about something? Not telling him that I was dating Ian? I mean, thought we got over the patience issue.” He lets out a shuddering moan. "God. What if he's in hospital, and no one told me?"

“Oooohkay Morbid Pants, let’s go. You’re done.”

“What if he's DIED?”

“The _rum_ has finished with you, that’s for certain. Let’s go, I’m taking you home.”

“We haven’t finished talking yet. Have we?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you while you’re four sheets to the wind. We can talk about this tomorrow when you’ve sobered up and taken enough painkillers to wrench your inevitable hangover into quiescence.”

“Quiescence is a fun word.”

“Sure is, Fry. Let’s go.”

Mel manages to wrestle him out of the pub and into her car, and she drives him back to his house and dumps him on his bed.

“Meeell. What am going to doooo.”

“Sleep, God-willing. And drink this.” She hands him a glass of water.

“I want my James.”

“Oh, for christ’s sake.” Mel rolls her eyes.

“Mel.” Nick looks up at her with overly-large, very serious eyes. “I can’t lose him.”

She brushes a lock of hair from his forehead. “I know you can’t, sweetheart. Go to sleep. We’ll fix this in the morning.”

...

Nick wakes to sunlight and Mel’s face six inches from his own.

“AHHHHgod. What is happening.”

“I’ve made you coffee. You should get up now or you’re going to feel worse.”

“Augh.” Nick sits up and takes it from her. “Why don’t I have a shirt on?”

“I took it off you last night.”

“I didn’t…” Nick presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I wasn’t sick on it, was I?”

“No.” Mel smirks at him fondly. “But you were sweating like a pig.”

“Oh good,” Nick says, his sarcasm blunted by the headache.

“Drink your coffee. We’re gonna solve this James issue, and you’re gonna owe me a dinner. A big one. A Sunday roast.”

“Augh,” Nick says again. “Don’t mention food.” He slumps against the headboard. He sits right back up again. "Oh my god. Work."

"I called in sick for you. Sheila seemed sort of…relieved. Have you been terrorising everyone?"

Nick groans and collapses back onto his pillows. He presses the palms of both hands to his eyes. "Can you fetch me some paracetamol or _something_?"

"Would you rather a lobotomy? They're on sale this week."

"God, please. Maybe then I won't _care_ as much."

Mel bends over to kiss his forehead and leaves the room, smacking her lips and pulling a face. "Augh. Sweaty boy."

She comes back with the bottle of pills and sets it on the nightstand before arranging herself at the foot of the bed. "Okay," she says, propping her chin on her hands. "Let's do this."

"What." Nick's hands are still over his eyes.

"Fix this. You say he's not a complete cock, so I will take that under advisement. What are you going to do about this situation?"

"Is this going to be one of those times where you logic everything?"

"Absolutely."

...

The key points are these, they determine:

1) James is occasionally inscrutable.

2) However, James has said numerable times that he likes Nick, and this seems to be borne out by their physical relationship.

3) James usually rings or texts when he says he’s going to.

4) He has not phoned or texted. This is an indication that something is wrong.

5) If something is wrong, Nick has a right to know what it is.

...

Nick slumps against his pillows, cradling his mug of cooled coffee in his hands. “I must have done something wrong,” he says softly.

“You might not have,” Mel says.

“But why else would he have stopped…everything.”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

Nick closes his eyes slowly, and opens them even more slowly. “I was so happy.”

“I know.”

“ _So_ happy. I thought everything was finally going great.”

“What do you _want_ to do?”

“I want to go over to his office and shake him.”

“What, exactly, is stopping you?”

Nick stops at that, and blinks. “I don’t want to stress him out.”

“He’s stressing _you_ out.”

“…Yeah.”

“Do you think he’d be upset if he knew how upset you are?”

“He HAS to know how upset I am. He’s not a moron. I'm sure he's sussed it. He _knows_ how I feel about him.”

“You’ve told him?”

“…Well. Sort of. I think.”

“Is this like ‘I sort of expressly told him Ian and I were together years ago’ or ‘I sort of said the words _I am falling for you, James_ ’?”

Nick freezes, and his face crumples. “Fuck.”

“What _have_ you told him?”

“That I like him.”

“And that’s it?”

“…In so many words, yes.”

“So he doesn’t really _know_ that you’re…smitten like a smitten thing.”

Nick shrugs.

“Do you know how he feels?”

“He’s said he likes me very much. And he acts like…yeah.”

“And that’s it?”

“…Yeah.”

Mel snickers. “You have great communication skills, guys.”

Nick sits up straight. “It’s not me! It’s—“

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts, waving him off. “Listen, you have to go be truthful with him. Maybe he doesn’t _know_ how you feel. Maybe he doesn’t get how much this is hurting you. Maybe he doesn't understand how worried you are about him.”

Nick scoffs. “He’s not an idiot.”

"Is he worth making the effort?"

"Of course," he says quickly, then stops and considers his words carefully. He looks at her. "Yes. I want him in my life. It's more than worth a little effort."

“Go,” Mel says, tugging on his arm. “Take a damn shower, figure out what you’re going to say. Say it. Go.”

“I don’t even know if he’s _working_ today.”

“Go.”

Nick blinks and swallows, then heads into the shower, nervous but with his mind whirring with things to say.


	11. And No Further

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, save the epilogue…and the Christmas Holiday Special, of course, which should be up on Christmas day all things going smoothly.  
> (Although, in the immortal words of Cap'n Reynolds, "It never goes smooth. Why doesn't it ever go smooth?", so here's just hoping things continue on track throughout the holidays.)
> 
> Thanks once again to Mazarin221B for the beta work and the necessary kicks in the pants, through the good days and the bad.

Mel’s energy, fortunately, is contagious, and his headache handily fades as he stands in the shower. By the time the water has turned cool he has a basic plan of attack. He makes Mel breakfast as a thank you, forces some down himself as well, and by lunchtime, he’s heading into the station. In the car he blasts Finnish folk metal to drive off his nerves.

With his heart pounding, Nick walks up to the front desk and asks if James is in. If he thought it'd help, he'd cross his fingers. In the end though, it turns out not to be necessary; he's only been standing there for about fifteen seconds before he hears a familiar voice calling his name.

DI Lewis is walking up to him, a curious expression on his face. "Hello lad, what are you doing here?" Lewis nods to the desk sergeant, who goes back to his paperwork.

"I'm…" Suddenly, this plan seems incredibly rubbish, and Nick is embarrassed beyond belief that he'd ever thought it a good one. He flushes. "I was hoping to, er, talk to James. Is he in?" _Is he still alive?_

Lewis gives him a strange look. “Yeah, he’s in our office. We’re on our way out in a few minutes, though.”

“Oh.” Nick is paralysed with indecision. Leave and try another day, or start an important conversation when they’re pressed for time?

But with a tilt of his head, Lewis makes the decision for him. “Go on. Talk to him,” he says, then squeezes Nick’s shoulder in an oddly affectionate gesture. “Tell him to phone when he’s done.” And Lewis turns to go. At the last moment, however, he stops suddenly and leads Nick into a more-quiet corner. "Listen, I need to say something." The fear freezes like a block in Nick's stomach as he watches Lewis stare into the air and visibly compose his thoughts. "These past few weeks, James has been… I don't think I've ever known him to be so happy. He's been lonely for a long time, and…I hope that—I'm not sure what happened, but he's been Old Miseryguts for the past week, and—I hope you two work things out, okay? Don't let him…" Lewis pulled a face, looking for the right word. "Don't let him do what he does. Make him talk, if you can. He needs you."

Nick nods, mouth dry. "Okay. I'll…" He swallows. "I'll do my best. Of course I will."

He finds James in his office, pushing his mouse around while staring at his monitor, his frown carving deep furrows around his mouth.

"Hi," Nick says, lingering near the doorway. James looks…exactly the same. He doesn't know what he'd expected, but Nick knows he feels like someone has taken a cheese grater to his innards, so he supposes he must have expected some outward indication that James is as much of a mess as he is. He doesn't think the fact there isn't any sign bodes well for him. His stomach roils.

James looks up, his face a blank. He swallows. “Oh.”

Nick stands there. _This plan is_ absolutely _rubbish._ He swallows, hard. “How are you?”

“Fine,” James says quietly. He hasn’t moved. “You?”

For some reason, Nick never really planned what his answer to that question might be. He should have, he thinks. Its asking is…obvious.

“I’ve been better,” he says, in an attempt at quiet honesty.

James’s gaze swings back to his monitor, his expression closed. “What are you doing here?”

It’s like a blow to the face. Nick almost rocks back at it. “You _disappeared_ , James.” He realises his hands are shaking, and he slips them into his pockets.

“Technically I stopped phoning,” James says. “I didn’t _disappear_.”

“You did to me.” Nick swallows.

“Well,” James says simply.

Nick’s breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He stares at James, trying to find some _clue_ what’s happened. He’s so…cold. He’s seemed confused before, or angry, but he’s never been _cold_. Nick takes a small step into the office. “James, what’s going on?”

James shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“It’s clearly _something_. You stopped phoning me back. And I don’t know why.”

James shrugs again. He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again. “I was through.”

“With me?” Nick forces an inhale, though his lungs feel scorched and raw.

After a moment, James nods. He still hasn’t looked at Nick once. “Yes.”

 _Oh._ Abruptly, the room flushes hot, then cold. “May I ask why?”

“I was too busy.”

“Too busy?”

“I didn’t think it was worth my time anymore.”

“It?”

“The relationship.”

“Me, you mean.”

“Yes,” James says evenly, and Nick feels his insides crumble. 

He balls his fists in his pockets. His palms are damp. “What.”

“I’ve got too much to do. I don’t have time for this today.” James starts typing, as if this conversation means nothing. As if their relationship means nothing. As if Nick means nothing.

Nick’s mind by this point is a fog of white. “We’re finished, then.”

“Yes.”

 _Nick. You need to leave. Now. Right this second._ He swallows through the tightness in his throat. “Okay. Well. I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, turning on his heel in a daze. “Goodbye, James.”

He sees nothing as he makes his way back to his car, trying to suck in air that feels like jet fuel.

It isn’t until he’s buckling his safety belt that suddenly, all at once, something in his chest collapses. Nick presses the heels of his hands to his eyes in a vain attempt to keep it together so he can drive, as if by pressing hard enough he can push the tears back in. If he’s not crying then this isn’t really happening, and if this isn’t happening there’s no reason to cry.

He feels utterly betrayed when the tears burn their way down his cheeks anyway. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuck._

“No,” he says, grimacing, and sucks in a deep breath. Then another. Then a third, and he thinks he’s managed to gain enough control himself to get home and take a scalding shower and figure out what else he can do with himself this miserable, horrible, trainwreck of a day.

…

 

Nick’s skin is still flushed pink from the shower, and he has on his most comfortable pyjama bottoms and his favourite, worn-soft-and-nubbly hoodie, but he still feels like crawling out of his flesh. He’s aware he’s gone a bit foetal, there on the sofa ignoring a West Wing dvd, and he knows he ought to try and eat or drink something, but he can’t quite manage it at the moment. Everything feels a bit…underwater. And achy. And numb. And poised, in a way, as if any moment something will happen and this will be real and then it will _hurt_.

But for now, he can stare, and pretend the realisation isn’t there at the periphery of his consciousness, waiting to pounce.

Come nine in the evening his stomach is rumbling so incessantly that it’s actually breached awareness and become annoying, so he rolls himself off the sofa and plods to the kitchen. He stares unseeingly into the fridge for almost a full minute before his eyes focus on a dish of leftovers. It’s the roulade he’d made, two slices set aside for James in the wild hope that he’d soon phone back or come over, the plate complete with sprouts and herbed mash and covered carefully with cling film, plated to be impressive.

Suddenly, Nick isn’t hungry anymore.

He lets the fridge fall closed and leans against the worktop as his breath hitches and he squeezes his eyes shut. _Fuck. No. I wasn’t_ finished. _We weren’t_ finished, _James. We’d just got started._ Nick presses his fingers down against the worktop so hard the tips turn white, and his throat feels narrow, constricted. He wants to hit something. He won’t, but he wants to. Or maybe tear open a pillow, rend it to pieces, set it on fire. Maybe James’s pillow.

 _Fuck._ James’s pillow. It’s been a week and a half. It doesn’t really even smell like him anymore. _Maybe after another week in a half it absolutely won’t, and I can forget about him._ Nick chuckles darkly as he shoves his palms against his eyes again. “Forget about the boy,” he murmurs in a quavering tenor, then sniffs and goes to find a song on Spotify. When he finds it, he sits in front of the speakers and lets the music shout at him. It feels like being sandblasted by sound. It sort of feels good.

_Cut the cord, is that a man I once adored?  
He’s nothing but an albatross_

Nick sits up straighter.

_No great loss, doublecrosser  
Forget about the boy…_

And all at once it crashes down on him, and Nick realises what’s happened. _Albatross. Albatross. Oh for fuck’s sake. Albatross. Nicholas, you’re a fucking idiot._

A burden. A cursed burden. James is doing it _again_. And once again he’s let James dictate all of it, no questions asked. No sufficient explanations given. This entire relationship has been subject to James’s whim, on his terms alone, and that’s fine, really, but this—this isn’t the time for that. Nick can let himself be carried along only so far before he’s got to at least make an attempt at steering this off the rocks.

He’s not finished. He will not go down quietly with this ship.

…

 

Come morning, Nick is bleary-eyed but calm. He feels a bit inside-out, a bit hungover from tears and emotional turmoil, but he got up early and went to the shops and cooked and cleaned out his fridge, and he feels centred enough to do this. He considers Alanis for the drive to the Oxfordshire PD, but instead chooses the soundtrack to Company. He has his reasons.

When he gets there, he marches past the desk sergeant with barely a nod and continues all the way to James’s office, where he stops short and sways.

“Hello,” Lewis says, wide-eyed with surprise. And no wonder, really. Nick bets Lewis didn’t think he’d be seeing him around here again. Somehow, the surprise helps, and Nick’s spine goes straight and tall.

“Is he around?” he asks, quietly focussed.

“He’s out back having a cigarette.”

“Has he eaten yet?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Lewis says.

For some reason, Nick finds himself thumbing the strap of the bag over his shoulder. “I brought lunch.”

The expression that crosses Lewis’s face is…complex. There’s something pleased in it, and something proud, and he presses his lips together and nods once, decisively. “Down the hall and to the left,” he says, then adds just before Nick turns, “Good luck, lad.”

Nick gives Lewis a smile that he hopes doesn’t look as ill with nerves as it feels. “Thanks.”

The doors are, unsurprisingly, just where Lewis said they were. And James is out there, half-sitting on the wall beneath some overgrown hedges, his knees locked straight as he hunches over his crossed arms and stares down at the pavement. The sight of it causes a rush of indignation to rise up and beat at Nick’s ribs.

“No,” Nick says.

James’s head snaps up.

“I don’t believe you. I disbelieve.”

“What.”

“Not worth your _time_?! _That’s_ what you’re going with? That’s your excuse? That’s one of the most rubbish things I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s—“

“Lewis told me you’ve been happy. I _know_ you’ve been happy. You told me you liked me. I believe those things. They’re true. I’ve seen them. But ‘you don’t have time’?! I don’t see that in the slightest. I’m hardly a huge drain on your schedule, James. I don’t make you take time off work. I fully understand what it’s like to have a career that takes a lot of your time, that’s capricious in its scheduling. I barely slept in my own bed when I was helping get the restaurant off the ground in Brighton. I know for a fact you care about me, James. And, god help me, I _need_ you in my life. I’m not letting you go for some ridiculously flimsy excuse like, ‘I don’t have time’. That’s a bullshit reason and you know it.” Nick takes a breath and steps forward. “You’re gonna have to try harder to convince me that’s what’s going on here.”

James stares at Nick. His expression is almost haunted.

“All this time,” Nick says quietly, “you’ve made me work for it. Be patient. Let you come to me. And it was completely worth it.” Nick presses his lips to a firm line and shakes his head. “Not this time. Convince me you’re just fine chucking this out, James. If you want me to believe you, _you’re_ going to have to work for it.”

They stare at each other for long moments, the look on Nick’s face hard and unwavering. James’s, on the other hand, is starting to falter. Finally, he closes his eyes and swallows, and he when he opens them, the full force of his vulnerability breaks through. “You deserve better,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“You deserve better. Someone…easy. Happy.”

Nick is staggered. “ _Easy_?”

“Who won’t do this to you.”

“Do _what_ ,” Nick spits. “Push me away?”

“ _Yes_ ,” James says sincerely.

Nick shuts his eyes in exasperation as his mind reels at this. “If you don’t think I should be pushed away, _don’t push me away_.”

James’s voice is fragile. “You don’t deserve all this trouble. You deserve someone who knows what he’s doing. Who has the facility to be a good partner. Someone like Ian.”

It’s almost laughable. “ _Ian_ is flighty as fuck. He prefers ‘Strictly’ to Monty Python, likes going out to the club more than anyone has a right to, and missed three out of four restaurant openings I was involved in when we were together. I love him like my brother, but he’s a fucking miserable boyfriend. This past week aside, and in spite of your work schedule, you’re _still_ one of the most reliable people I know. And I’ve never met someone who suits me more. I don’t want Ian. I don’t want someone _like_ Ian. I want _you_ , James.” Nick exhales harshly. This really is almost laughable. “You have no idea how happy you make me, do you.”

James just blinks at him.

“In spite of all this bullshit, I can’t bear to let you go. What does that tell you?”

“That there’s something seriously wrong with you?”

It’s a harsh joke, but at least it’s a joke. Nick’s lips turn inward and he bites them, looking away and huffing a reluctant laugh. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, wry. He takes another few steps closer to James as he clears his throat. "Listen. I know how I feel about you," Nick says. "And I haven't said much about it, so you can be excused for not knowing. James, I…really, _really_ care about you. You're fun and brilliant and dry, and you get me with _incredible_ ease. I love the way you think, and your manner, and I just. I find you beautiful. So I…I need you to understand that it's not much of a hardship, being around you and waiting for you to become comfortable. With this. With us. I…" Nick takes a deep breath before admitting quietly, “When we met, I was lonely too. I don’t want to be lonely anymore. And I know you don't either."

They stand in silence for a few moments. “I don’t know what to say, now,” James eventually says, his voice gone soft and quiet.

“You could apologise for being a massive twit who doesn’t know what’s good for him.” At this, James snorts a laugh and ducks his head, which makes Nick’s stomach clench. _God I’ve missed that sound_. Nick’s anger is starting to unravel at the seams, and it’s…okay, perhaps. Perhaps. “Do you _really_ want to end this?” he asks tentatively, heart in his throat.

James looks at him for a moment, appearing to be surprised at the question. Then his expression shifts, and he looks like a lost little boy. He reaches out and reels Nick in, wrapping his arms around Nick’s shoulders and pressing his face into his hair. He exhales harshly, all the breath leaving his lungs in a rush. Nick realises James is trembling slightly, and tightens his arms around James’s ribs. James lets out another rough breath.

The embrace goes on, and James pushes one hand up into Nick’s hair to hold him closer. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Yeah, don’t do that again.” Nick squeezes his eyes shut tighter.

“I won’t.”

“You don’t get to decide for me what I’m willing to put up with. I thought we’d covered this.”

“I’m a slow learner.”

Nick can’t help the bubble of laughter. “Sometimes I wonder.”

James squeezes him, moves his head and then is kissing Nick, deep and slow, one arm tightening around him and the other gripping his hair. He makes a pained noise in his throat that breaks Nick’s heart.

Nick kisses back but his mind whirrs, a maelstrom of thoughts about how good it feels to be kissing James again, how shattered he would have been if James had really broken it off, about what he could say to calm James’s fear. He seems always to be trying to calm James’s fear, but the fact is— Nick takes James’s face in both hands and eases the kiss down to a few chaste presses of their mouths so he can speak. He pulls his head back to look into James’s eyes. “I just want to say this: I know you’re not easy. But you’re so, _so_ worth it.”

James’s expression crumples and kisses Nick again. The passion in it staggers him. James is kissing him so hard and so carefully, each movement done with great deliberation, as if exorcising some kind of pain. It feels like James is pouring his entire heart into it, and when he whimpers quietly and fists his hands into Nick's hair it leaves Nick dizzy. 

“ _I’ve missed you_ ,” James whispers against his mouth. “ _Nicholas_ , god I've missed—" His fingers tighten in Nick's hair to the point of pain. “I hate that I keep hurting you.“ He huffs a pained breath. “You were right.”

Nick’s heart is pounding. “I’m right.”

“I _do_ care about you. You’re resilient and stubborn and gorgeous and perfect and…” James’s voice gets tight, so he forces a swallow and presses his forehead to Nick’s temple. “God this _hurts_.”

With a quiet noise, Nick dives in and kisses him desperately, sliding his hands up underneath James's jacket and opening his mouth against the other man's. He feels the tremble in James's breath as he exhales against Nick's lips, then tilts his head to go in for a deeper kiss. Nick moans, and grabs handfuls of the back of James's shirt.

There is a wolf whistle from behind them. It's loud enough to echo off the building.

They spring apart like two teenagers caught snogging when their parents are away, which, to be fair, is not far from wrong. Lewis is standing near the doorway with his arms crossed and a very bemused expression on his face.

"Don't you think it's time to get back to work, Sergeant?"

"Er." James is trying to smooth down his clothing and erase the reddened stubble burn from his face with his palm, and neither is working. "Yes. Sorry, sir."

Nick is sure he's blushing nearly purple. "Sorry." He doesn't know where to put his hands.

The smirk breaks into a grin. "At ease, you two. Finish your lunch, then you can pick up where you've left off later. At home. Not here. Okay?"

"Yes, sir. Again, sorry."

Lewis shakes his head, and Nick doesn't know him that well but he'd swear Lewis was trying not to laugh at them. "Just hurry up, okay? We've got a briefing in twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir. Sorry."

"God, stop saying that," Lewis whinges cheerfully, and disappears back into the building.

James makes an indistinct noise and stares up at the sky for a moment. Nick starts giggling.

"Stop laughing,” James demands.

Nick tries to, but fails entirely, and in a matter of moments James's strop fails utterly to coalesce and he starts giggling as well. They lean against the wall, shoulders touching, snorting and laughing like schoolboys. The relief rolls off them in waves.

"Well. There goes my reputation," James says.

"I think you have a rather different one, now," Nick replies.

"This is entirely your fault."

"I'm _absolutely_ fine with that. It was well worth it."

James smiles at him, and his eyes flick over towards the door for a moment before he pulls Nick into another bonecrushing hug. “What did he mean, finish our lunch?” he says, rubbing his face on Nick’s hair.

“I’d brought us lunch.” He blushes. “It worked before.”

James pulls back to look at Nick, and a shy smile lights up his face. “You did. Of course you did.” He hugs Nick again, fiercely, making a quiet grunting noise when he squeezes him. “I…really am a complete _bastard_.”

“You really are.”

“I never really considered stubbornness to be a virtue.”

“You're going to have to try harder to put me off than that, Stylites."

"I'm Stylites now?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

They pull back and stare at each other for a few minutes, and slowly both of them start smiling until Nick is sure they look a bit mental, embracing and staring and grinning daftly in the shadow of the hedge.

"You're robbing me of my martyrdom?"

“But granting you sainthood. Stylites was a saint."

"And Cressida was a beggar."

"You really are none of these things."

"Too right." They're grinning again. James murmurs, a teasing rumble, “So. Where’s my lunch, you stubborn prat.”

Nick kisses him again.

…

 

Eventually Nick peels himself away and sets up the meal in between them on the top of the wall. The lasagne is still warm enough to steam in the cool, shadowed air, and Nick stifles a smile when James starts bouncing on his toes, silent but impatient.

He hands James a filled plate, then dishes out lasagne and salad and garlic-roasted green beans onto his own.

"Thank you," James murmurs as he pokes at the lunch with his fork.

Nick can't help smiling at him: the awkward tilt of his head, the shy hunch of his shoulders. James is so _endearing_ , and Nick's heart hurts. 

James goes solemn and soft. "Can I see you tonight?"

"Of course."

"I've really missed you."

Nick's chest rises and falls. "I've missed you too."

"I'm so sorry, Nicholas."

"Yes, you are." Nick smiles softly. "Did you really miss me, or are you just using me for the food?"

"Is the law on my side if I say aye?"

"Bastard," Nick smirks. He kisses James and goes back to his food, but barely tastes any of it; all he can focus on is James, and his eyes, and the way he and James can't seem to stop looking at one another.

When they've finished, and the leftovers and dishes are packed away, Nick slings the bag over his shoulder. "Tonight?"

James nods. "I'll phone you before I leave. Hopefully it won't be too late."

"Whatever time, I don't care. Wake me, if you have to."

"You're sure?"

"Daft bastard." Nick smiles at him. "God, I just want you there." He turns to go, but James stops him with another hard kiss, then links their fingers and presses their foreheads together. They breathe quietly for a few moments. Nick is sure James wants to say something, but after a several seconds he steps back and lets go of Nick's hands. The emotional tension is thick, and it freezes Nick's feet. James takes a visible breath and it breaks the moment, so Nick backs toward the building.

"Bye," he says, smiling softly.

"Bye," James says, and Nick turns to go, leaving James to his inevitable cigarette.

 _Well,_ Nick thinks, mulling over this new flavour of tension, heavy like a blossom waiting to open, full of potential, _There's always going to be_ something, _isn't there? A new step, a new milestone. Something new to wait for. It’s true, we’re not finished yet. We’ve only just begun._

As he makes his way back into the building, Nick’s heart soars.


	12. Lay You Down (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nick has had a slew of lovers over the years. Long-term, short-term. A few one-night stands. A few friends-with-extras. But recently, he's become…lonely. Incredibly lonely. His friends have started to pair up over the past few years, and Nick has begun to feel an intense identification with that dude from Company._
> 
> _So when James appears and looms like Darcy and quotes like Fry and sounds like Cumberbatch, there's not a chance in hell Nick isn't going to start singing show tunes in his head and hoping for a way to trip the man precisely in the right direction so he falls gracefully into Nick's bed. Life. Bed. Life._
> 
> _Well…_
> 
> _Both._
> 
> This is what happens when romance comes to James Hathaway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mazarin221B for the support and the beta and the suggestions and the _ear_ , all through this. Thanks to all who commented for giving me such great feedback and squee and support, and thanks to all who left kudos for letting me know that there are people out there enjoying this 'verse.
> 
> Please check in on Christmas Day for the Very Special Holiday Episode, a pwp one-shot that started off little and, in the way of such things, expanded to fill its container.

_~—Two months later, a warm Saturday morning in August—~_

James is sitting up in his own bed with his guitar, picking something complicated, when Nick sidles into the room carrying two plates in one hand and two mugs in the other. A bright grin spreads across James's face and his fingers falter. "Talented."

"Says you." Nick carefully sets both mugs on the bedside table and hands one plate to James before climbing into bed himself. "I used to be able to carry five at once. Not sure I can anymore, though."

"Five?" James is already tucking into his scramble with great concentration.

"You clearly never worked at a restaurant as a teen."

"I was rather busy at the time."

Nick makes a dismissive noise. "Doing what, hooligan?"

"Attending mass." James smirks, and Nick takes that as an invitation to kiss him. He's bacon-flavoured.

"Likely story. You were probably out spraying garden walls with gang signs."

"Nope. My art skills aren't good enough. I was kicked out early for painting a Picasso instead of a Hopper."

"Let me guess. You tried to wrap the portrait around the wall and the nose ended up in the wrong place."

James laughs. "That doesn't even make _sense_."

"Give me a break, I'm hungry and it's early."

"It's _ten_ ," James scoffs, but his face splits into a wide yawn, which distorts as he tries to laugh at himself. 

Nick is already laughing. "We were up _really_ late."

"Two isn't that late."

"We left the _pub_ at two," Nick smiles wryly. "We didn't exactly sleep when we got home."

James snorts a laugh, then reapplies himself to his meal.

Nick scoops up egg with his toast. "So what do you want to do today?"

With a sideways quirk of his head, James considers the question. "I hadn't really thought about it beyond not working and spending the day with you."

"Well, okay, logically." Nick puts his plate down on the bed and tries to cut his bacon with the side of his fork. He really ought to have brought a knife in. "Go out or stay in?"

James looks at Nick from the corner of his eye, a little bashful. "Stay in."

Nick's smile goes ear to ear. "Good."

"Is the next question, 'Get dressed or stay in our pyjamas?', because I think you can probably guess my answer."

"If you like it can be."

"Third answer. Naked."

Nick grins, but shakes his head. “What if we want to go out later?”

"I think I could make that a very distasteful concept.” James's mock-seductive half-smile is _adorable_.

"Much as I'm keen to try, I don't suspect we can manage to have sex the entire day."

"Oooh. _Cynical_."

Nick cracks up. "You like our chances?"

"I think if we're suitably tactical we can manage it."

"Tactical sex?"

"I could delay your orgasm for a very long time."

 _Hnngh._ Nick squirms a little and considers eating his breakfast a little faster. James is looking over at him, a bit smugly, and Nick slightly regrets the day he introduced the concept to him. But not really. "That still doesn't solve the issue of what we're actually going to be _doing_ during that time," he points out.

"Well, _I_ could read a book. _You_ are going to be busy."

Nick raises his eyebrow. "Am I?"

"I was envisioning…" James sets his plate aside—Nick has no idea how he's finished so quickly—and he picks his guitar up to pick at it, lounging against the headboard in thought. "I could plug you with the vibrator, and turn it on for variable-length intervals while I read my book, until I decided you could come. And then I'd leave it on and suck you off."

Nick has to hand it to him; his talk is getting better. Either that, or he's just becoming imaginative, and Nick is too smitten to care too much about how the message is presented when the message itself is so delicious. He tries to take another bite of his breakfast, but the low-level arousal is churning his stomach and affecting his appetite. "That. Okay." He swallows, then looks over to James, bemused. "Not a bad plan," he murmurs with a grin.

James looks supremely pleased with himself as he focuses his attention back to his guitar. 

"Smug," Nick teases.

"Yup," James says, popping the 'p'. The music he's playing intensifies to a complex wall of fingerpicking, the melody weaving in and out of the supporting structure like a silver thread. Nick finishes his breakfast and sets his plate on the side table so he can take in the sight: James in a vest and boxer shorts; the long expanse of his legs, lightly furred in gold; the elegantly-shaped, well-cut musculature of his thighs and calves; the way the cords in his forearm ripple as his fingers pick out his song. The concentration on his face—and God, that's one of Nick's favourite things about him in any situation, his ability to hone his laser-sharp focus on something and _own_ it, learn it, absorb it—but his concentration when playing music, the soul and attention he gives, is so startlingly attractive that Nick has trouble looking away. He looks so beautiful there, intent on his song, and Nick finds himself breathing shallowly and refusing to make any sudden moves for fear he might break the spell.

James starts adding ornamentation, hammering-on lightly to change the tone of the piece until it begins to sound distinctly Celtic. Nick perks up at the familiar musical landscape, and as he shifts to get more comfortable James begins quietly to sing.

_Lay ye doon love_  
I'll treat ye decen'  
Lay ye doon love  
I'll full ye can  
Lay ye doon love  
I'll treat ye decen'  
For surely I'm  
an honest man 

It is absolute, fucking, bliss. It's entirely possible that Nick has never been so happy.

He doesn't really want to interrupt the song, but this needs doing—immediately. Nick takes off his glasses, pushes up to his hands and knees, and leans over to stop the song in its tracks, kissing James slowly and deeply, languid movements of wet mouths and soft tongues. James's breath hitches and he moans quietly into Nick's mouth. Nick can feel James try to tug at the guitar trapped between them, so he rocks back just far enough that James can set it away from the bed then moves in again to press him to the pillows. Nick settles over him with his weight on his elbows and closes his eyes as he brushes their mouths together, lightly, the delicate skin of his lips sensitive to every spark of touch. He feels dizzy.

James's breath is already ragged, and he slides his hands up the smooth skin of Nick's back and hauls off his t-shirt all in one move, then his arms wrap around his back and he squeezes Nick tightly.

" _James_ ," Nick breathes, and he buries his face against the man's shoulder.

James groans as if in pain, and he strokes Nick's back, up his neck, and buries both hands in his hair. He holds Nick's head in place and pours his heart into the kiss, squirming ever so slightly against Nick's weight as he tilts his head so the kiss is even deeper, as if being underneath weren't enough and he were trying to crawl inside.

Nick's world reels and he whimpers. He drags James's lower lip between his teeth. " _James_ ," he breathes again, and makes a small, broken noise in the back of his throat when James's fists tighten in his hair.

" _Oh god_ ," James whispers against Nick's mouth, and hitches his leg up over Nick's hip.

Nick lets out a rough, shattered sound. He kisses James again and runs the palm of his hand up and down his thigh, slipping it under his boxers so he can touch his skin from knee to hip, the texture of soft skin and rough hair making him moan. He's knocked back by a wave of emotion and digs in his fingertips in an attempt to hold on. The whimper caught in James's throat does not help with that.

James is suddenly clinging, and all Nick can do is close his eyes and rock against him. His throat is so tight he can barely breathe. He clings back. They rock against each other for several long minutes, and as Nick clutches he's swept up in the sweet high of the hormones tearing through him, the aching pull in his lips, his hands, the tension in his groin, the desperate need to press against James over and over and over, the need to never, _ever_ let go.

Then James moans, and Nick is kissing him again. It goes on and on, so long that Nick begins to lose track of himself—of time and space and any boundary between their bodies—and his entire world is just this slow, rhythmic, press of mouths, intimate, against, inside, and it feels so good, so much like sex, that Nick starts trembling.

James makes a desperate, pained sound, and lowers his leg to start shoving Nick's boxers down his thighs. _Oh god. Yes._ Nick rolls to the side, and James sits up just enough to let Nick yank his vest over his head, and he lifts his hips enough that Nick can strip off his boxers, and then they come together again in a shared moan at skin against skin, hot and hard and soft and breaking into gooseflesh with the sensation. Their limbs entangle immediately.

"I need you," Nick murmurs, and in response James lets out a broken whimper.

"Yes. Yes. _Please_." James kisses him, ratcheting down his control until the desperation simmers just under the surface, and the kiss becomes glacially-slow, powerful, necessary.

Nick cries out into his mouth, lust-blind and trembling. He lets James set the pace until Nick is afraid either his heart will explode, or he'll begin to weep, then he sobs out, " _James._ "

"I want this," James gasps in between kisses, writhing now. "I want this. I want this. _Oh god_ please. Please. Please. I want it."

Nick's heart clenches. "What do you want?"

"You. Please. _Please._ I'm ready."

"Inside me?"

" _Yes_ ," James gasps.

 _Oh god_. "Yes. _Please._ " Nick has been craving it for months, and he's been as patient as always, but that doesn’t mean it’s been easy.

"I need you. Now."

 _Oh_ my _god_. Heart hammering in his chest, Nick fumbles for the lube from the bedside table. The rasp of their breath is loud in the room. When Nick finds it, James grabs his hips and presses their foreheads together, furrowing his brow and breathing oddly.

"Are you okay?" Nick asks softly.

James nods without breaking contact, then reaches up and places the palm of his hand over Nick's sternum. Nick lets out a rush of breath. His chest hurts. He nuzzles his face against James's, and the pain softens to a dull ache. 

They stay like that for a few moments, just breathing, then Nick inhales shakily and lifts up James's hand to press a kiss to his palm. "Okay?" he asks again.

James wraps his arms around him and pulls him back down to the bed for a desperate kiss. Nick melts into his arms. 

He can feel James fishing around in the bedclothes, and Nick wriggles the tube of lubricant out from underneath them. "This?" he pants against James's mouth with a note of humour.

"Mmmhmm," James growls roughly, and the sound goes right to Nick's hindbrain and threatens to roll his eyes back into his head. Still, he manages to flip open the tube and pour out enough to slick James's cock where it's hard against his hip. James's hips stutter and he gasps.

"I want you to be ready to go when I am," Nick says, and James nods, looking dazed.

Nick lays back alongside James and hands him the tube. He smiles.

This, they're already good at. Soft kisses, teasing touches, and James slowly winding Nick up until he's taut as a bowstring around two fingers, then backing off quickly. Over and over, until Nick is nearly delirious. He tries to kiss James anyway, then moans when James kneels between his legs. "Wait." He shakes his head feebly at James's worried look. "No, sit up."

He looks a bit confused, but James complies, and the confusion clears when Nick crawls into his lap and straddles him. They stop, and they look at each other, wide-eyed and trembling, then slowly, carefully, Nick sinks down onto James's cock. 

Nick can't breathe. He can't breathe, and James's eyes are round as saucers, and he's afraid to move or something battering behind his ribs might break. James huffs out a breath, then wraps his arms about Nick and tilts his head to capture the other man's mouth in a kiss. It all makes Nick's eyes flutter closed, and he wraps his limbs about James to clutch him close then gently rolls his hips.

They both gasp into each other's mouths, and Nick waits a few moments to do it again. James shudders lightly and scrapes his fingernails down Nick's back, then Nick shudders as well. " _James_ ," he moans.

" _Christ_ , that feels… Oh my _god_." James looks stunned.

"No blaspheming in the bedroom," Nick murmurs with a twinkle in his eye and a guileless expression. James chuckles for a moment, then all of a sudden the humour falls from his face and he strikes, kissing Nick with all his heart. Nick whimpers and then they're moving together, slowly, rocking together and gasping and clinging. James clamps his teeth down on the meat of Nick's shoulder.

Nick cries out. "Oh my god _harder._ " James complies with a groan, and Nick scrabbles his fingers slickly against the sweat beading up on James's back. " _Ohhhhhhhh_ god yes. _Fuck_."

James bends his knees up behind Nick's back, which allows him to brace himself and shove up inside with a firm thrust of his hips. Nick's head snaps back. James growls, "I'm. Trying. To." He keeps up the pace, eyes glued to Nick's face, panting wildly with the effort.

Nick drags his head forward again, and he's sure he looks wrecked and foggy and a little far away. "Can you come like this?" he manages to get out.

James stops thrusting and breathes for a moment. Inside, Nick can feel James's cock twitch in complaint at the sudden lack of stimulation, and they both clutch each other and moan. "I don't know," James gasps. "I don't know."

Nick starts rolling his hips again, grinding down onto James's lap, and they kiss sloppily, open-mouthed. "I want you to come," Nick murmurs in between kisses. "I want your cock buried deep, _deep_ when you do…nngh…where it's hot and tight, and I want to see you wracked with pleasure. _Ohhhhh_ …I want to see the bliss on your face. I want to see how glorious it feels to come inside me."

James's eyes roll back and the lids flicker shut, and his hips kick up a few times. "Keep talking and you'll have your chance," he moans.

"You want me to talk you into an orgasm? Come to the sound of my voice?" Nick says, his mouth an inch away from James's.

James shivers. "Fuck. How do you _do_ that." He shakes it off and focuses on Nick's face. "I want you to come first," he says.

Nick shakes his head. "Chivalrous, but you know if I come I'll be way too sensitive to keep going." 

"Shame."

He looks so rueful that Nick has to kiss him. "Eventually we can work on timing, but for today let me do this for you." He rolls his hips ever so slowly, and James clutches at him, jaw dropped open. "May I lie on my back?" he says, and strokes his fingers down the sides of the other man's face. They are so close that his eyes dart from one if James's to the other, unable to focus on both at once.

James nods, and breathes, "Yes, please."

Nick doesn't know a graceful way out of this position, so there is an awful lot of giggling as he disengages and settles onto his back.

"That's my pillow," James points out.

Nick raises an eyebrow. "Do you honestly care?"

James huffs a small laugh. "Not really."

They're smiling fondly at each other, chuckling, and Nick reaches up to touch James's face again. "Come here." James settles down between Nick's legs to kiss him, wholeheartedly. They were just laughing, but somehow the tone of the kiss immediately turns, becoming slow and intense. Nick wraps his legs around James's hips and runs his hands up the back of James's neck to bury them in his hair. James gasps and whimpers. Then he shifts, and they arrange themselves, and he's pushing inside again, and they both moan and cling.

James presses forehead to Nick's sternum for a moment, but when he lifts it it's with his eyes shut and his mouth dropped open. When he opens his eyes his brow furrows with pain. Nick is concerned, and thinks he's going to say something about it, but he doesn't; he just studies Nick's face, chest heaving.

"What's wrong?" Nick whispers.

James's eyes are swimming with something complex and deep. "I thought I was going to be alone forever," he whispers. 

"I know," Nick says softly.

"I never thought I'd have this." The look on his face is heartbreaking.

"This?"

" _Passion._ "

A sigh escapes Nick. "Shhh. Don't—" He's interrupted by a kiss so hard he can feel the beard burn as it's happening. He moans into James's mouth, high, tightly, quickly overwhelmed by such _massive_ emotion. Nick claws down James's back and lifts his legs higher as they start to move again, shaking, together, entwined. 

_This feels_ — Nick's eyes open wide with shock. "Oh my god, love." _This feels…incredible_. His breath is ragged against James's shoulder. Then James shifts, and the angle is so good knocks Nick's head back into the pillow. He moans, and the room echoes with it. 

James's hips stutter at the sound. Nick prepares himself for it to get rougher, but it doesn't. Instead James leans forward and kisses him sweetly, tremulously, oh _so_ gently, and it's far more affecting, somehow. Nick's heart is pounding in his ears. He can't breathe again. And abruptly, it's very important that—

"You need to come. Now," he gasps against James's mouth. James pulls his head back slightly to look into his face. "Before I do. Now."

James pushes his weight up and stares into Nick's face, eyes wide. "Now?"

" _Please_."

James shoves in, hard, eyes locked with Nick's, and huffs out a breath. The expression on Nick's face is foggy with desire, but he focuses enough to reach up and drags the back of his knuckles down James's cheek. He traces his fingertips across his mouth, then down his throat, and strokes across his shoulder to wrap his fingers around James's bicep.

"Oh god," James breathes, and his expression blurs. He thrusts in, then again, and his jaw drops and his head hangs and his face contorts as he goes faster, harder, his breath puffing with the work of it. When he drags his head back up, his face is bright red and his eyes are huge, bright, and stunned. He grabs at Nick's thighs, pulls at them, and Nick lifts them higher so James can tip forward and kiss him, pushing in as deeply as he can go with each wet, desperate, kiss, their breath huffing between them. Nick's fingers are in James's hair and his calves around his ribs and his cries are in James's mouth, and Nick can feel his mind and body rapidly spinning out of control. He pulls himself just enough together to kiss James with a little more focus, a little more passion, then all at once the rhythm shifts and James's hips reflexively kick forward once, twice, and his spine snaps into a curve as he ploughs Nick into the mattress and comes with a violent shudder and a groan, broken and hoarse, pressed into Nick's shoulder. The aftershocks wreck him for nearly half a minute, and meanwhile Nick strokes his back and sides, astonished.

James comes back to earth. "I should…" A little fumbling, he pushes himself up onto one arm and slides his hand between them, and if he weren't so on edge Nick might have laughed at the expression on James's face when he manages it.

" _Fuck_ , you're hard."

Nick does wheeze out a laugh at that. “I nearly came." Instead of answering, James rebalances for a moment to grab at Nick's hand and shove two of his fingers in his mouth. He sucks, and Nick's eyelids flutter closed. "Oh _god_." James is moving his hips and pulling Nick's cock, and it's slick with sweat and pre-come and _glorious_ , and James's mouth is hot and wet and his teeth scrape and it smells like James and he's all around him and in him and everything…is just…just… _Oh. God. Yeeeeesssss_ …

The tension snaps and he's _there_ , pulsing hard around James and over his fingers, moaning, his toes curling above his back, writhing with pleasure. Somewhere in the distance Nick hears James gasp. It goes on and on, and every time it starts to ebb James moves and Nick's brain shorts out again.

Eventually his leaden limbs fall and Nick sinks into the bed. There's slight pain in his fingers, and the air of the room is cold against their wetness, but James's comforting weight is on top of him and his damp breath puffing against the crook of Nick's shoulder somehow feels amazing.

Nick sighs. "Hi," he exhales, and drags the backs of his knuckles up and down James's sweat-slick ribs. James doesn't say anything, just squeezes him in a kind of hug and lifts his face up for a kiss. "I'm going to have to go clean up in a moment."

"In a moment," James mumbles, and buries his face against Nick's neck.

"All right?" Nick whispers.

"I could feel you. Coming. Hard."

Nick just has the strength to smile. A little. "Yeah."

"It was much better than with my fingers."

He has to chuckle at that, the blandly-spoken and wild understatement. "Unh-huh. Talking of which, did you just bite _mine_?"

James pushes himself up onto his elbows to look into Nick's face, and it looks like he's working himself up to say something serious, but he doesn't. Nick eventually cuts him some slack and starts kissing his nose and cheeks and jaw, and James starts to smile. He looks, suddenly, incredibly happy. Nick has to pull his head down to kiss him properly, long and slow and deep, hands in his hair. "Guess what," he says when they pause for breath.

"Hm?"

"I am going to spend the whole weekend—all day, all night—here with you. I am _all yours_."

The grin he gets in return is dazzling.


End file.
